"Not for counsel are we met,
But to secure our arms from treachery,
O'erthrow and stifle base conspiracies,
Involve in his own toils our false ally----"
--"Count Julian," Walter Savage Landor.
For one long moment there was a silence so tense that the breathing of
those present was plainly audible. Peggy had become very pale, but she
met the searching glance which General Washington bent upon her
steadily.
"Did you ever give him a note, letter, or communication of any kind?" he
asked at length.
"Yes," she answered. "I gave him a letter to send through the lines a
few days since. It was Third Day afternoon, as he hath said."
"You?" cried John Drayton springing toward her, and there was anguish
and incredulity in his voice. "You? Oh, Peggy!"
"Yes," she said again clearly. "Has thee the letter, John? Give it to
the general. He will see that there was naught of harm intended."
But Drayton shrank back and covered his face with his hands.
"Have you the missive, ensign?" demanded the commander gravely. "If so
let me see it."
"She, she doth not know---- It cannot be. Oh, sir, do not look at the
letter, I beseech you," uttered young Drayton brokenly.
"The letter, Drayton." There was no mistaking the command in the tone.
The boy drew the letter from his sword belt, and handed it to the
general.
"There is some mistake," he said, and Peggy was surprised to see that
his eyes were wet. "Sir, I entreat----"
"Take your prisoner to the outer room, ensign," ordered the chief after
reading the note. "Meantime, may I ask that all of you will leave me
with the exception of this girl?" He indicated Peggy as he finished
speaking.
Silently the men filed out, but Harriet lingered, her eyes fixed upon
Peggy with so much of appeal that the latter tried to smile
reassuringly.
"You must go too, Miss Harriet," he said, and Harriet was forced to
leave the room.
In all of Peggy's life never had she felt the fear that now came upon
her. At all times reserved in his manner and his bearing full of
dignity, never before had she realized the majesty of General
Washington's august presence. In the past when others had called him
cold and austere she had denied such qualities warmly, but now as she
found him regarding her with a stern expression she began to tremble
violently.
"And to whom was your letter sent?" he asked after a painful pause.
"To Sir Henry Clinton, sir."
"And what would you have to say to Sir Henry Clinton?" he demanded,
plainly astonished.
"I?" Peggy looked at him quickly. "Why, I did not write it, Friend
Washington."
"You did not?" It seemed to Peggy that his glance would pierce her very
soul, so keen was his scrutiny. "If you did not, who did?"
"Read the letter," implored she. "Read it, sir. 'Twill explain
everything."
"I have read it," he made answer. "Do you wish me to do so again?"
"Yes," she said, a vague apprehension stirring her heart at his manner.
Slowly and impressively he read aloud without further comment: "A
certain personage spends a portion of every clear afternoon upon the
summit of Chimney Rock, which I have told you stands nigh to Bound
Brook. Fording the Raritan at the spot already designated could be done
without fear of the sentry, and the personage captured with but little
risk. Without him the army would go to pieces, and the rebellion ended.
Further particulars contained in other letters forwarded by S."
"Oh!" gasped Peggy her eyes widening with consternation. "That is not
the note I sent, Friend Washington. Does not that mean thee and thy
capture?"
"Yes," he said. "There seem to be plots and counterplots for the
leaders. What is behind all this? I am loth to believe that you would
wilfully connive at either my capture, or anything that would bring harm
to the cause."
"I would not, I would not," she told him earnestly, amazed and
bewildered at the thing that had befallen her. "I would do naught that
would injure the cause. And thee---- Why, sir, I would rather die than act
of mine should bring thee harm."
"I believe you," he said. "Your past actions show you have the best
interests of your country at heart. But you are shielding some one," he
said leaning toward her suddenly. "Who is it? Were it not for the fact
that your cousin discovered so much zeal in warning Governor Livingston
and the garrison at Elizabethtown I should say that 'twas she. But were
she guilty she would not have warned the governor, and would have tried
to prevent you from doing so." He looked straight into her eyes as the
girl with difficulty repressed an exclamation. "Who is it?" he asked
again.
But Peggy could only stare at him unable to speak. In that moment the
truth had come to her, and she saw the explanation of everything.
Harriet had deceived her and all of them, from the beginning. A blaze of
anger swept her from head to foot. Was the daughter, like the father,
only seeking to work them harm?
"Who is it?" repeated General Washington, watching her intently, and
seeing that she was shaken by some emotion.
"It was----" she began, and paused. She had promised only that morning
that she would not tell that Harriet had given her the note. Could she
break her word? Had she not been taught once a word was passed 'twas a
sacred thing, and not to be lightly broken? She looked at him in
anguish. "I want to tell thee," she burst forth, "but I have promised. I
have promised."
"But you thought the contents of this note were different, did you not?
You did not know that it contained a hint of a plan for my capture?"
"No," she answered. "I did not know."
"Then you were tricked," he declared. "By shielding this person, or
persons, you expose the entire camp to other plots which may prove more
successful than these last have been. Do you still consider your word
binding under the circumstances?"
"I have been taught," she said, her eyes full of trouble, "that having
once passed my word it must be kept. Friends do not take oath as others
do, but affirm only. Therefore, we are taught, that once given one's
word must be abided by so that it will be as stable and as much to be
relied upon as an oath."
"But do you not see, Mistress Peggy, that your refusal to disclose the
name of the person places you under suspicion?"
"I am a patriot," she asserted, pleadingly, "loyal and true to my
country. I have ever striven to do what I could."
"Yes; but by your own confession you have given a note to this man, who
says that 'tis this very one. We have only your word that 'tis not so.
Then, too, you were alone when the warning note was found. It was not
soiled nor trampled upon as it would have been had it lain there long.
Child, you place yourself under suspicion."
"I see," she said miserably.
"'Tis a cruel necessity of war to use spies," he went on, "but all
armies show them small mercy when they are caught. And it should be so.
The man, woman, or girl even, acting as one does so at the risk of
life."
Peggy started. He had used almost the same words that John Drayton had
used the day they had seen the swinging body of the spy. A shudder shook
her. Again she saw the swaying form dangling from the tree. Small mercy
was shown a spy. Could she condemn Harriet to such a fate? Beautiful
Harriet with her wonderful eyes!
"Friend Washington," she cried brokenly, "thee does not believe that I
would injure thee, or my country, does thee?"
"What am I to think, Miss Peggy?" he asked, ignoring her outstretched
hands.
"Give me a little time," she cried. "Only a little time. Oh, I am sore
beset. I know not what to do."
"Child," he said with compassion, "I am thinking of a time when a young
girl came to me through winter's snow and cold to plead for the life of
her father. Do you remember what she said when I told her that I could
not exchange a spy for him, valiant though the deeds of that father had
been? She said, 'I know that thee must refuse me. Thee would be false to
thy trust were thee to do otherwise.' Hath my little maiden whose answer
so warmed my heart with its patriotism that I have never forgotten it,
changed so that now she shields a spy? I cannot believe it."
"Thee presses me so hard," she cried wringing her hands. "Let me have a
little time, I entreat thee. It could not matter to let me have until
to-morrow. Just until to-morrow, Friend Washington."
He gazed at her thoughtfully. Her anguish was so apparent that none
could help being touched. That there was much behind it all was very
evident, and so presently he said:
"You shall have until to-morrow, Mistress Peggy. 'Tis against all
precedent, but for what you have done before I will grant your request.
But there will be no further delay."
"Thank thee, sir," said she weeping. "I will ask none." She spoke
timidly after a moment. "What am I to do, sir? Thee will not wish me to
stay for dinner if I am under suspicion."
"Yes," he said. "Let all go on as before until the matter is unraveled.
Can you compose yourself sufficiently to wait upon Mrs. Washington? The
dinner hour hath come."
As Peggy replied in the affirmative, he called an orderly, and gave him
some directions, then escorted the maiden into the dining-room. The
Quaker habit of self-control enabled the girl to bear the curious
glances cast at her pale face, but the dinner was a trying ordeal. She
had grown to love the gay circle that gathered at the table, and to
count a day spent with the brilliant men and women as one to be
remembered; to-day she was glad when the time came for her to go home.
Harriet had been very vivacious all through the afternoon, but as they
set forth accompanied by the same aide who had escorted them to the
mansion she relapsed into silence. It had been Peggy's intention to tell
the whole story to her father and mother in Harriet's presence as soon
as she reached home, but there was company in the drawing-room, and as
she stood hesitating what to do her mother hastened to them.
"How tired you both look," she cried in alarm. "To bed ye go at once.
Nay, David," as Mr. Owen entreated a delay. "'Tis early, I know, but too
much excitement is not to be endured. And both girls will be the better
for a long sleep. So to bed! To bed!"
And with some reluctance on the part of both maidens they went slowly up
to the little chamber under the eaves.