"Blow, blow thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude."
--"As You Like It."
Half hidden by lilac bushes and trellised grape-vines the cottage of
Nurse Johnson stood in Nicholson Street. A tiny garden lay on one side
of the house, and back of it a small orchard extended through to Palace
Street.
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!"