"Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes
After its own life working...
A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;
A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
Of service which thou renderest."
--Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Late afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Mount Vernon found the
little party drawing near to the lowland city of Williamsburg. The road
had no other travelers than themselves. There were no more thick woods,
the road running in a blaze of sunshine past clumps of cedars, and
wayside tangles of blackberry, sumac and elder bushes.
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.
[Illustration: "WHY HAVE YOU COME?"]
"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.