“Next week, and to New York. My aunt can no longer stand all this mob
of rebels. We go to New York, and for how long I know not. Since, in
September, our friend, Dr. John Kearsley, was mobbed and maltreated, my
aunt declares you unfit to live among. I must say I thought it brutal,
sir. When men of sense and breeding like Mr. Penn, Mr. Chew, and Dr.
Kearsley, cannot live unmolested it is time, my aunt thinks, to run.”
“No one annoys Mr. Penn or Mr. Chew,” said I. “To my mind, they are
neutrals, and worse than open foes; but thy doctor is a mad Tory, and a
malignant talker. I saw the matter, and I assure thee it was overstated.
He lost his temper; ‘t is a brave gentleman, and I would he were with
us. But now that both sides are sure at last that they are really at
war, these men who live among us and are ready to welcome every redcoat
must have their lesson. It must be Yes or No, in a war like this.”
“But I hate that,” she returned; “and to be comfortable and snug, and to
love ease and Madeira and a quiet horse, and a book and a pipe and a nap
of an afternoon, and then to have certain of the baser sort cry, ‘Get
up and kill somebody!’ I think I am with Mr. Ross and believe that,
‘let who will be king, I well know I shall be subject.’ Imagine my Aunt
Peniston’s fat poodle invited to choose between exile and killing rats.”
“My dear Darthea, for thee to preach caution and neutrality is
delightful.”
“Did it sound like that Mr. Congregation?”
“No; to tell the truth, I think it did not.”
“Indeed, you are right,” says she. “I am a red-hot Tory, sir. I scare
Margaret Chew out of her sweet wits when I talk blood, blood, sir; and
as to Miss Franks,--she hates to be called Becky,--when I say I hope to
see Mr. Washington hanged, she vows he is too fine a man, and she would
only hang the ugly ones. So take care, Mr. Stay-at-home, take care; I am
no neutral.”
“Thank thee,” I said, lifting my hat. “I like open enemies best.”
“Oh, I will say a good word for you, when it comes to that, and you will
need it. Sir Guy will have Ticonderoga soon, and Mr. Howe New York;
so that, with my loyal cousins and the king in possession, we shall at
least be in civilised society.”
“There is a well-worn proverb,” said I, “about counting chickens. Where
shalt thou be in New York?”
“Cousin De Lancey has asked us to stay with them. When the king’s troops
return to your rebel town we shall come back, I suppose.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “All my friends are flitting like swallows. Poor
Mr. Franks is to go, it seems, and the gay Miss Rebecca; but she likes
the redcoats best, and another is of the same mind, I fear.”
“I am not over-grieved to go myself,” said Darthea, “and we will not
quarrel just now about the redcoats. Have you seen Mr. Warder to-day?”
“I have not.”
“Then I am the bearer of ill news. He is to join your new general in a
week or two. He could not find you this morning. I think he was relieved
to know I should tell you. How much he cares for you! It is not like a
man friendship. It is like the way we weak girls care for one another.
How can he be such a brave gentleman as he seems--as he must be? I
should have thought it would be you who would have gone first. Why
do you not go? Here is Miss Wynne’s pet girl-boy away to fight, and
you--why do not you go?”