PEGGY SPEAKS HER MIND
“Was it really as they said?” George Prentiss asked himself. “Was the
thing a jest, after all? Or was it----”
Here his thoughts were interrupted by the old Tory.
“Huh!” grunted that worthy gentleman. “It would seem that my nephew,
the major, is in wonderful spirits to-night. Something must have
pleased him vastly, for I never saw him so before, that I can recall.”
There was a swish of silken skirts as a door opened.
“My niece, Peggy,” added the merchant. “My dear, this is young Mr.
Prentiss, who was of such use to me some few weeks ago when my
villainous temper got me into trouble.”
Peggy swept the young New Englander so elaborate a courtsey that it
hinted of mockery. The smile that wreathed her lips was honeyed, but
the old look of scorn was deep in her eyes.
“I remember Mr. Prentiss perfectly,” she said, and there was an
undercurrent of meaning in her tones.
“You shall sit opposite him at supper,” promised the stout old fellow.
“And mind you entertain him well. We owe him something.”
“Mr. Prentiss,” said Peggy, “should not be difficult to amuse. He is so
interesting himself. I feel sure that wherever he is, something will
happen; one is not likely to be dull.”
“Ha, ha! do you hear that, lad?” Merchant Camp chuckled delightedly.
“That’s saying something of you, surely.”
“I don’t deserve it, though,” answered George, and his eyes met the
girl’s straightforward look unsmilingly.
“Never say that,” cried the honest old uncle. “Leave others to speak
ill of you, my boy.”
“Apparently,” said George, his eyes still meeting those of Peggy, “they
are only too ready to do that.”
“Why,” said the old gentleman, “you are over young to have observed
such things.”
“Sometimes it is made so plain,” replied George, “that it requires no
great experience to know it.”
The merchant laughed good-humoredly.
“We have a philosopher of gloom in you, I see.” Then turning to his
niece: “What do you say to this, my dear?”
“If you please, sir--nothing,” said she.
She walked to one of the windows, her silken skirts swishing; and the
old merchant, puzzled, turned to George and shook his head.
“She’s an odd one at times,” he said, lowly. “Very much like her mother
was--and there was no keeping the run of her for five minutes together.”
George made no reply to this; he stood with his back to the fireless
hearth and watched the tall young figure at the window with its
proudly-posed head. After a moment, the merchant, as though something
had just occurred to him, took a letter from his pocket.
“I meant to speak of this when I first came down,” said he. “But those
gentlemen of Mr. Washington’s were in ear-shot.”
He unfolded the sheet while George looked at him surprisedly. The
expression “gentlemen of Mr. Washington’s” seemed odd.
“It will amuse you,” continued the stout old Tory in a low tone, “but
when I was about to ask you here to-night a thought struck me, and I
hesitated. Not that the outcome would have made any real difference,
you see, for I should have asked you anyhow. But I hastened to refer to
this,” holding out the letter, “as soon as I got here. And the result
has pleased me. I am delighted that you are one of us.”
“It looks like my grandfather’s writing,” George said, lowly.
“It is,” replied Merchant Camp. “It is a letter of his written me when
Warren and Hancock and the Adamses first began to take such a high
hand in Boston. In it he speaks of how families were divided upon
the question before the public eye. His own, like mine, was in this
deplorable condition.” Here he held the letter to the light so that
he could read it. “Listen to this: ‘One of my grandsons, Ezra, is
in favor of the Whiggish demands; the other, George, is a king’s man
through and through.’” Merchant Camp looked up from the screen and
smiled at the young man. “That is what I wanted to make sure of. I knew
that one or the other of you was on the right side; and I am delighted
that it’s you.”
Here he grasped the hand of George with great warmth. The youth,
disliking that any one should have a false impression of him, was about
to put the matter before the merchant in its proper light, but at that
moment Major Hyde and his friend, Henderson, reëntered the room.
“I find that the terms of the wager were----” Here Hyde observed Peggy
and paused. Holding a small note-book toward George, its pages open
that he might read, he continued in a lower voice, “The terms, as
you see, are merely that I manage to get you talking on the subject
mentioned.”
The young man noted that this was so; but there was something in the
proceeding and in the eager intentness of the two men that caught his
attention.
“But,” continued Hyde, “Henderson interprets it that I extract
information from you.”
“Oh, well,” said the dragoon, and in the same low tone as his friend,
“I dare say we can arrange the matter. We must not delay the supper,”
in a louder voice.
“A good, sensible saying,” spoke the host. “And as sense is not to be
expected of scatterbrains who take sword against rightful authority,
all the more credit is due you, Master Henderson.”
The dragoon laughed, as did Hyde.
“Do you hear that, Prentiss?” cried he, as they all seated themselves
at the table. “Do you notice how you are referred to? A ‘scatterbrain,’
says he.”
The old Tory favored George with an elaborate wink, which not only
expressed delight, but spoke of what he considered the secret
understanding between them.
“I dare say,” remarked he, “that we of the king’s side have as bad said
of us--or worse.”
As the meal progressed, the wind and rain did not abate; the thunder
rattled and rolled; the lightning glared against the sky. The merchant
had placed Peggy just opposite George, and the lad made the best of the
opportunity. But the girl was silent. The best he could draw from her
was a “Yes” or a “No”; and all the time her face was cold; her eyes,
when he caught them, were judging him cruelly.
“What has become of Herbert?” asked Captain Henderson, after a time. “I
haven’t seen him for weeks.”
The old merchant scowled down at his plate.
“It is difficult to keep track of that young man,” said he.
“A great pity that he left the army,” observed the dragoon. “Especially
at this time.”
“It altogether depends upon the point of view,” replied the Tory host.
“But, that aside, hide nor hair of him I have not seen for some time. I
don’t,” with displeasure, “even attempt to understand him.”
“To understand people is one of the most difficult tasks a person can
set himself,” said George. As he spoke, his eyes met those of Peggy.
“But for all that,” he went on, “there are those whose judgments of
others are made offhand.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” answered Mr. Camp.
But it was not until after supper that George had his first opportunity
to speak to her alone. The old merchant had mentioned an ingenious
method that he had hit upon for packing breakable articles, and had
carried the two officers into another room to demonstrate it to them.
The spring storm was still raging; the flare of the lightning every now
and then dimmed the drawing-room candles; the wind continued to beat up
from the bay with fury.
The girl was in a deep window-seat, looking out upon the storm; the
night was inky, but the flare of the lightning was so incessant as to
afford an almost continuous view. George leaned back against a carved
table, and as he trifled with the stems of some roses which he had
found thereon, he watched her reflectively.
“I’ve been thinking,” said he, at last, “that perhaps I may have been
wrong.”
She did not even turn her head, but went on gazing steadily into the
rain-drenched Crown Street.
“Perhaps,” proceeded George, “the judgments which one is led to believe
are quickly made are really arrived at after some thought. It is even
possible that your estimate of me came after due deliberation.”
At this she turned, as he felt sure she would. The lightning glared in
at the window behind her; but the flash of her eyes was the quickest to
reach him.
“It is strange,” she said, “that you go on holding this attitude when
you must know that I am not to be deceived. I did not require to
deliberate; your acts were all that were necessary to make up my mind
concerning you.”
A gleam of satisfaction came into his eyes.
“Ah!” He threw the roses back upon the table and studied her closely.
“That is it, then?--my acts? Thank you. At last we have come to
something specific.
“If you will point out anything that I have done since I came to New
York, which I cannot successfully defend,” continued he, “I shall be
willing to have you think what you choose of me.”
But she gave a gesture of utter disbelief.
“I am not interested,” she said. “It does not matter to me.”
“But it does to me. You seem to forget that.” His voice was hot with
anger. “Do you expect me to hold my tongue, accused as I am of some
rascally act! Not once, not twice, but a half dozen times you have
hinted at something discreditable that I have done. Speak plainly. Give
it a name, so that I may meet it squarely!”
His resentment was low-voiced and sharp; his face was flushed and
determined; his hands were clinched until the knuckles seemed ready
to split the skin that covered them. As she looked at him a hesitancy
seemed to temper her scornful attitude; for the first time since she
had assumed it, a doubt crept in and mingled with her disdain. But for
all that she retained her former tone.
“Of what use would it be to give it a name?” she said. “You know it
already.”
“You will pardon me if I insist,” he answered. “I differ with you in
opinion--I oppose the faction that you hold to, and upon this you have
reared a fanciful structure of evil. I demand that you be plain.”
“You demand!” Her voice rang as she said this and her eyes flashed
her defiance. But almost instantly her manner changed. “A fanciful
structure, indeed! Do I not know--haven’t I seen? Haven’t I heard?
And my treatment of you is not because you oppose the faction that I
hold to. There are others in this house,” bitterly, “who do the like,
yet I believe them honest men. It is,” and her voice fell a trifle,
but lost none of its directness, “because you hold faith with no
faction--because you are a traitor to all.”
The flush died out of his face; he took a step toward her, astonishment
replacing the rage of a moment before. But before he could speak
another word, the two officers and the host reëntered.
“I defy any one,” declared the old gentleman, “to destroy valuables so
arranged. They’ll go safely enough, though the roads across Jersey are
somewhat rough,” with a laugh. “Indeed, I wish we were assured of as
comfortable a journey.”
“When do you start?” asked Major Hyde.
“At high noon to-morrow. We have a coach with good springs and can
secure relays of horses. Two days should see us at home, if nothing
unforeseen turns up.”
“I think,” spoke the dragoon, “that you do well to leave New York so
soon. There is no telling, now, when all the roads will be closed and
Lord Howe’s guns roaring havoc across the city.”
“That would not drive me out,” stated the Tory merchant, “if it were
not for Peggy. Indeed, gentlemen, it would please me greatly to stay
and see the end of this uprising.”
“You think, then, that it will end here?”
“I never was more convinced of anything in my life. The governmental
officers are determined to efface the stain put upon them at Boston,
and that they will do it is a certainty.”
Here the talk drifted away into the field of politics; the merchant did
most of it, and he did it heatedly and most eloquently. The time went
by and the storm seemed to increase. By ten o’clock Peggy begged leave
to retire, as she had some tasks to perform against the journey on the
morrow. George lingered on and on in the hope that she would return to
the drawing-room; but she did not.
It was close to midnight when he at last arose to take his leave.
“What!” cried Mr. Camp. “In such a drenching downfall as this? Never,
sir. You’ll be wet through. I have a room for each of you, and you
shall all three remain and take breakfast with me--my last in New York
under rebel rule, at least.”
George Prentiss did not protest against this with any great vehemence;
the wind and rain, and the thunder and lightning, though, had little to
do with his agreeing to remain the merchant’s guest. It was very late
when he, at the heels of Hyde and Henderson, and each bearing a lighted
candle, mounted the wide staircase to their chambers. The flickering
yellow light fell before and about them, but there were dark corners
which remained heavy with shadow; and from one of these a pair of
terror-filled eyes followed them; two trembling hands were upraised to
hide a frightened girlish face.