Confirmation of the rumour, so far as Mrs. Meredith and Janice were concerned, was first received through the commissary.

“Ay,” he told them, when questioned; “’t was decided at a council of war the very day Howe left us, and that was why we at once began transferring our stores and the seized property to New York, one cargo of which your husband was put in charge. ’T will tax our shipping to the utmost to save it all.”

“But why didst thou not warn us, so that we might have embarked with him?” asked Mrs. Meredith.

“’T was a military secret to be told to no one.”

“Can dadda return ere the evacuation begins?”

“’T is scarce possible, even if his orders permit it.”

“Then what are we to do?”

“Thou hadst best apply at once to the deputy quartermaster-general for transports.”

Mrs. Meredith acted on this advice the following day, but without success.

“Think you the king’s ships and transports have naught to do but act as packet-boats for you Americans?” the deputy asked. “Hundreds of applications have been filed already, and not another one will we receive. If you ’d for New York, hire a passage in a private ship.”

This was easier to recommend than to do, for such was the frantic demand for accommodation that the prices had been raised to exorbitant figures, quite beyond their means. So appeal was made once more to Clowes.

“’T is something of a quandary,” he remarked; “but there is a simple way out.”

“What?”

“I’d have saved ye all worry over the matter but that I wished ye to learn the difficulties. I have never made pretence to doing favours out of mere kindness of heart, and ye know quite as well as I why I have given ye lodging and other aids. But for that very reason I am getting wearied of doing all and receiving nothing, and have come to the end. Give me Miss Janice, and my wife and mother shall have passage in the ship I sail in.”

“You take a poor way, Lord Clowes, to gain your wish,” said Janice. “Generosity—”

“Has had a six months’ trial, and brought me no nearer to a consummation,” interrupted the baron. “Small wonder I sicken of it and lose patience.”

“’T is not to be expected that I would let Janice wed thee when her father has given thee nay.”

“Because he has passed his word to another, and so holds himself bound. He said he’d consent but for that, and by acting in his absence ye can save him a broken oath, yet do the sensible thing. He’ll be glad enough once done; that I’ll tie to.”

“It scarce betters it in a moral sense,” replied Mrs. Meredith. “However, we will not answer till we have had a chance to discuss it by ourselves.”

“Janice,” said her mother, once they were alone, “thy dread of that man is a just one, and I—”

“I know—I know,” broke in the daughter, miserably; “but I—if I can make us all easy as to money and future—”

“Those are but worldly benefits, child.”

“But, mommy,” said the girl, chokingly, as she knelt at her mother’s feet and threw her arms about Mrs. Meredith’s waist, “since live we must, what can we do but—but—Oh, would that I had never been born!” and then the girl buried her head in her mother’s lap.

“’T is most unseemly, child, to speak so. God has put us here to punish and chasten us for Adam’s sin; and ’t is not for us, who sinned in him, to question His infinite wisdom.”

“Then I wish He ’d tell me what it is my duty to do!” lamented Janice.

“Thinkest thou he has nothing to do but take thought of thy affairs?”

“Wouldst have me marry him, mommy?” asked the girl, chokingly.

“Let us talk no further now, child, but take a night’s thought over it.”

They were engaged in discussing the problem the following afternoon, when Lieutenant Hennion burst in upon them.

“Why, Phil!” cried Mrs. Meredith; and Janice, springing from her chair, met him half-way with outstretched hand, while exclaiming, “Oh, Mr. Hennion, ’t is indeed good to see an old friend’s face.”

“’T is glad tidings ter me ter hearn you say that,” declared Philemon, eagerly. “Yestere’en General Lee and the other rebel prisoners came out from Philadelphia, and we, having been brought from Morristown some days ago, were at once set at liberty; but ’t was too late ter come in, so we waited for daylight. I only reported at quarters, and then, learning where you lodged, I come—I came straight ter—to find how you fared.”

Alternating explanation and commentary, the women told of their difficulties.

“I can’t aid you to get aboard one of the ships, for I’ve had ter draw my full pay all the time I was prisoner, the rebels nigh starving us, let alone freezing, so money ’s as scarce with me as with you. But I’ll go ter—to my colonel, and see if I can’t get permission that you may go with our baggage train.”

“’T will be a benefit indeed, if you can do that,” exclaimed Mrs. Meredith.

“Then I’ll not tarry now, but be off about it at once, for there was a rumour at brigade headquarters that three regiments had been ordered across the river this afternoon, and that it meant a quick movement.” He picked up his hat as if to go, then paused, and haltingly continued, “I hope, Ja—Ja— Janice, that you’ve come ter—to like—not to be so set against what I wants so much. It ’s nigh a year since I seen— saw you last, but it ’s only made me love you the better.”

The girl, with a look of real contrition, answered, “Oh, Mr. Hennion, do not force—’T would be wrong to us both if I deceived you.”

“You can’t love me?”

“I—oh, I believe I am a giddy, perverse female, for I seem able to care for no man.”

“The world I’d give ter win you, Janice; but I’ll not tease you now, the more that I can be doing you a service, and that ’s joy enough.”

Philemon went toward the door; but ere he had reached it Janice had overtaken him and seized his hand in both of hers. “You deserve to love a better maid,” she said huskily, “and I wish you might; but perhaps ’t will be some comfort to you to know that dadda holds to his promise, and—and that I am less wilful and more obedient, I hope, than once I was.”

As Philemon opened his mouth to make reply, he was cut short by the entrance of the commissary, who halted and frowned as he took in the hand-clasp of the two.

“Humph!” he muttered, and then louder remarked, “Yet another! Ye’ll be pleased to know, sir, that Miss Meredith’s favours mean little. But a month since I caught that fellow Brereton regaling himself with her lips.”

“That’s a lie, I know,” retorted Philemon, angrily; but as he glanced at the girl and saw her crimson, he exclaimed, “You just said you cared for no man!”

“It—it was at a moment when I scarce knew what I did” faltered Janice, “and—and—now I would not be kissed by him for anything in the world. I—I am—I was honest in what I said to you, Philemon.”

“I’ll believe anything you say, Janice,” impulsively replied the lieutenant, as with unprecedented boldness he raised her hand to his lips. Then facing Clowes he said: “And I advise you ter have a care how you speak of Miss Meredith. I’ll not brook hearing her aspersed.” With this threat he left the room.

“I regret to have been an intruder on so tender a scene,” sneered the commissary; “but I came with information that was too important to delay. Orders have been issued that all ships make ready to drop down the river with the tide at daybreak to-morrow, and ’t is said that the army will begin its march across the Jerseys but a twenty-four hours later. So there is no time to lose if ye wish to sail with me. The marriage must take place by candle-light this evening, and we must embark immediately after.”

“Philemon has promised us his aid, Lord Clowes,” replied Mrs. Meredith, “and so we need not trouble thee.”

“Hennion! But he must go with his regiment.”

“He offers us a place in the baggage train.”

“Evidently he has not seen the general orders. Clinton is too good an officer to so encumber himself; and the orders are strict that only the women of the regiments be permitted to march with the army. I take it ye scarce wish to class yourselves with them, however much it might delight the soldiery.”

“They could scarce treat us worse than thee, Lord Clowes,” said Mrs. Meredith, indignantly. “Nor do I believe that even the rank and file would take such advantage of two helpless women as thou art seeking to do.”

“Tush! I may state it o’er plainly; but my intention is merely to make clear for your own good that ye have no other option but that I offer ye.”

“Any insults would be easier to bear than yours,” declared Janice, indignantly; “and theirs would be for once, while yours are unending.”

“Such folly is enough to make one forswear the whole sex,” the commissary angrily replied. “Nor am I the man to put up with such womanish humoursomeness. “I’ve stood your caprice till my patience is exhausted; now I’ll teach ye what—”

“Heyday!” exclaimed André, as a servant threw open the door and ushered him in. “What have we here? I trust I am not mal apropos?”

“Far from it,” spoke up Janice. “And thou ’rt welcome.”

“I come laden with grief and with messages,” said André, completely ignoring Clowes’ presence. “Mr. Hennion, whom I met at headquarters, asked me to tell you his request was refused, that his regiment was even then embarking to cross the Delaware, and that therefore he could not return, whatever his wish. The Twenty-sixth is under orders to follow at daybreak to-morrow, and so we plan an impromptu farewell supper this evening at my quarters. Will you forgive such brief notice and help to cheer our sorrow with your presence?”

“With more than pleasure,” assented Mrs. Meredith; “and if ’t will not trouble thee, we will avail ourselves of thy escort even now.”

“Would that such trouble were commoner!” responded André, holding open the door.

“Then we’ll get our coverings without delay.”

Lord Clowes, with a deepened scowl on his face, intercepted them at the door. “One word in private with these ladies,” he said to the captain. Then, as André with a bow passed out first, he continued, to the women: “I have warned ye that we must be aboard ship ere ten. Refuse me my will, and ye’ll not be able to rejoin Mr. Meredith. Take my offer, or remain in the city.”

“We shall remain,” responded Mrs. Meredith.

“With your husband a warden of the seized property of the rebels, and known to have carried away a ship-load of it? Let me warn ye that the rebels whom we drove out of Philadelphia will be in no sweet mood when they return and find what we have destroyed or carried off. Hast heard how the Bostonians treated Captain Fenton’s wife and fifteen-year-old daughter? Gentlewomen though they were, the mob pulled them out of their house, stripped them naked in the public streets, smeared them with tar and feathers, and then walked them as a spectacle through the town. And Fenton had done far less to make himself hated than Mr. Meredith. Consider their fate, and decide if marriage with me is the greater evil.”

“Every word thou hast spoken, Lord Clowes,” replied Mrs. Meredith, “has tended to make us think so.”

“Then may you reap the full measure of your folly,” raged the commissary.

“Come, Janice,” said her mother; and the two, without a parting word, left him. Once upstairs, Janice flung her arms about Mrs. Meredith’s neck.

“Oh, mother,” she cried, “please, please forgive me! I have ever thought you hard and stern to me, but now I know you are not.”

Strive as those at the supper might, they could not make it a merry meal. The officers, with a sense of defeat at heart, and feeling that they were abandoning those who had shown them only kindness, had double cause to feel depressed, while the ladies, without knowledge of what the future might contain, could not but be anxious, try their all. And as if these were not spectres enough at the feast, a question of Mrs. Meredith as to Mobray added one more gloomy shadow.

“Fred? alas!” one of the officers replied. “He was sold out, and the poor fellow was lodged in the debtors’ prison, as you know. As we chose not to have them fall into the hands of the rebels, a general jail delivery was ordered this morning, which set him at large.”

“And what became of him?” asked Janice.

“Would that I could learn!” groaned André. “As soon as I was off duty, I sought for him, but he was not to be heard of, go to whom I would. Bah! No more of this graveyard talk. Come, Miss Meredith, I’ll give you the subject for a historical painting. I found of Franklin’s possessions not a little which took my fancy, and such of it as I chose I carry with me to New York, as fair spoil of war. Prithee, draw a picture of the old fox as he will appear when he hears of his loss. ’T will at least give him the opportunity to prove himself the ‘philosopher’ he is said to be. I have taken his oil portrait, and when I get fit quarters again I shall hang it, and nightly pray that I may live long enough to do the same to the original. Heaven save me if ever I be captured, though, for I make little doubt that in his rage he would accord me the very fate I wish for him!”

When at last the evening’s festivities, if such they might be termed, were over, it was André, preceded by a couple of soldiers with lanterns, who escorted them back to their home, and at Janice’s request he ordered the two men to remain in the now deserted house.

“They must leave you before daybreak,” the officer warned them; “but they will assure you a quiet night. I would that you were safe in New York, however, and shall rest uneasy till I welcome you there. Ladies, you have made many an hour happier to John André,” ended the young officer, his voice breaking slightly. “Some day, God willing, he will endeavour to repay them.”

“Oh, Captain André,” replied Janice, “’t is we are the debtors indeed!”

“We’ll not quarrel over that at parting,” said André, forcing a merry note into his voice. “When this wretched rebellion is over, and you are well back at Greenwood, and may that be soon, I will visit you and endeavour to settle debit and credit.”

Just as he finished, the sound of drums was heard.

“’T is past tattoo, surely?” Mrs. Meredith questioned with a start.

“Ay,” answered André. “’T is the rogue’s march they are ruffling for a would-be deserter who was drum-headed this evening, and whom they are taking to the State House yard to hang. Brrew! Was not the gloom of to-night great enough without that as a last touch to ring in our ears? What a fate for a soldier who might have died in battle! Farewell, and may it be but a short au revoir,” and, turning, the young officer hurried away, singing out, in an attempt to be cheery, the soldier’s song:—

“Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, soldiers, why,
Whose business ’t is to die?
What, sighing? fie!
Drown fear, drink on, be jolly, boys.
’T is he, you, or I!”