"He flees
From his own treachery; all his pride, his hopes,
Are scattered at a breath; even courage fails
Now falsehood sinks from under him."
--Walter Savage Landor.
As Peggy placed the candle she had carried to light them up the stairs
in the socket of a candlestick on the chest of drawers, Harriet closed
the door, and shot the bolt. Then slowly the two turned and stood face
to face. Not a word was spoken for a full moment. They gazed at each
other as though seeking to pierce the mask of flesh and bones that hid
their souls.
It was a tense moment. The attitude of the Quakeress was accusing; that
of the English girl defiant, changing to one of supplication as the dark
eyes of her cousin held her own orbs in that intent look. For a time she
bore the gaze unflinchingly, but soon her glance wavered, her eyelids
drooped, and she sank into a chair whispering:
"You know, Peggy. You know!"
"Yes," said Peggy. "I know, Harriet."
"Will--will they hang me, Peggy? What did Mr. Washington say? Oh, I have
been so miserable this afternoon! I thought they were coming to take me
every time the door opened. And you were so long with him. What did he
say?"
"He does not know that it was thee who writ the letter yet, Harriet,"
Peggy informed her calmly.
"Not know?" ejaculated Harriet, springing up in amazement. "Did you not
tell him, Peggy?"
"No, Harriet. I promised thee this morning that I would not, and I could
not break my word," explained Peggy simply.
"You did not tell him?" cried Harriet, as though she could not believe
her ears. "Why, Peggy Owen, how could you get out of it? He would
believe that you were the guilty one if you did not."
"So he told me, Harriet. But I had promised thee; and then, and then,
though thee does not deserve it, I could not help but think of that spy
we saw---- But, Harriet, I asked him to give me a little time, and I
thought that I would ask thee to return my promise, because I cannot
submit to rest under the implication of having tried to injure General
Washington. Thee must give me back my word, my cousin."
"And if I do not?" asked Harriet anxiously.
"I am going to father with the whole matter. I shall do that anyway. The
general claims that I was tricked, and I was, most shamefully. That
letter was not the one that thee let me read. And the letter telling of
the attack was thine. I see it all--why thee rode ahead to warn the
governor and the garrison, and everything. The time has come, Harriet,
when thou shalt tell me why thou hast come here to act as a spy. Why
hast thou used us, thy kinspeople, to mask such plots as thou hast been
in against our own friends? Have we used thee unkindly? Or
discourteously? Why should thee treat us so, my cousin?"
[Illustration: "WHY SHOULD THEE PLAY THE SPY?"]
"I did not mean to, Peggy," returned Harriet with her old manner of
affection. "Do you not remember that I said this morning that I was
sorry that I let you send it? And I am. I am. But John Drayton was to be
with us, and he watched me so that I feared that he would see me. Truly,
I am sorry, Peggy."
She spoke with evident sincerity so that Peggy believed her.
"Harriet," she said, "tell me why thou hast done this? Why should thee
play the spy?"
Harriet shivered at the word. "I am cold," she said. "Let us get into
bed, Peggy. I am cold."
Without a word of protest Peggy helped her to undress, but she herself
climbed into the four-poster without disrobing. Harriet pulled the many
colored counterpanes about her and snuggled down into the thick feather
bed.
"Peggy," she said presently, "I know 'tis thought most indelicate for a
female to engage in such enterprise as spying, but would you not take
any risk for your country if you thought it would benefit her?"
"Yes," assented her cousin. "I would."
"That and one other thing is the reason that I have become one," said
Harriet. "We English believe that you Americans are wrong about the war.
We are loyal to our king, and fight to keep the colonies which
rightfully belong to him. I came with my brother, Clifford, over here,
and both of us were full of enthusiasm for His Majesty. We determined to
do anything that would help him to put down the rebellion, and so
believing offered our services to Sir Henry Clinton.
"There was but this one thing that I could do, and when we learned that
you and your mother were to join Cousin David we knew that it was the
opportunity we sought. Sir Henry welcomed the chance to have an
informant who would be right in the midst of things without being
suspected. And I have learned much, Peggy. I have done good work."
"Harriet," interrupted Peggy amazed at the recital, "does thee mean to
tell me thee knew when mother and I were coming?"
"To the very day," answered Harriet with a laugh. "Oh, we keep well
informed in New York. You little know the people who are around you. And
your general hath spies among us, too. 'Tis fortune of war, Peggy."
"So General Washington said," mused Peggy. "But I would thee were not
one. 'Tis a life full of trickery and deceit. I like it not for a girl."
"And the other reason," continued Harriet, "is more personal. Peggy, my
father hath lost all his fortune. We are very poor, my cousin."
"But--but thy frocks?" cried Peggy. "Thee has been well dressed, Harriet,
and frocks are frocks these days."
"It seems so to you because you know not the mode, cousin. Were you in
London you would soon see the difference betwixt my gowns and those of
fashion. But I was to have the reward for Governor Livingston should the
plan for his capture succeed, and that would have helped father a great
deal."
"Oh, Harriet, Harriet!" moaned Peggy bewildered by this maze of
reasoning. "I would that thee had not done this, or that thou hadst
returned to thy people long ago. Why did thee not go back the other day?
'Twas in the letter that thee should be near so as to be taken also."
"I intended to," answered Harriet. "That was why I wished to ride near
to Liberty Hall, but when I found that I had lost the note, I came back
for it, hoping that you had not seen it. You were determined to warn
both the garrison and the governor, and that would render it impossible
for me to get to our forces. I tried to slip away yesterday, but there
was no chance. And now you will tell on me to-morrow, and I will be
hanged."
"Don't, Harriet," pleaded Peggy. "I am going right down to father, and
see if he can tell us some way out of this. It may be that he can
persuade General Washington to let thee go back to thy people."
"Peggy," cried Harriet laying a detaining hand upon the girl as she
slipped from the bed. "You must not bring Cousin David into this. He is
a soldier who stands high with the general. If he intercedes for me he
will himself be under suspicion. You would not wish to get your father
into trouble, would you? Beside, 'tis his duty, as a patriot, to give me
up to punishment. Do you not see it? If I were not your cousin you would
not hesitate in the matter."
"True," said Peggy pausing. Well she knew that her father was so loyal
that the matter might appear to him in just that very way. "He loves
thee well though, Harriet."
"And for that reason he shall not be tempted," cried Harriet. "No,
Peggy; there is no help. I must pay the penalty. I knew the risk."
She buried her face in the pillow, and, despite her brave words, sobs
shook her form.
"Is there no way? No way?" cried Peggy frantically. "I cannot bear to
think of thee being hang----" She paused, unable to finish the dreadful
word.
"There is one way," said Harriet suddenly sitting up. "If you would help
me, Peggy, to get to Amboy I could get to New York from there."
"Could thee, Harriet? How?"
"There are always sloops that ply betwixt the two places," said Harriet.
"If I could but reach there I know that I could get one of them to take
me to the city."
"But how could thee reach Amboy?" asked Peggy.
"Peggy, go with me now," pleaded Harriet, clasping her arms about her
cousin. "Let us slip down, and get our horses. Then we can get to Amboy,
and you could be back to-morrow morning. Your father, ay! and your
mother, too, would be glad to know that I had got away before they came
to arrest me."
"But why should I go?" inquired Peggy. "Can thee not go alone? Thee
knows the way."
"They would not let me pass the lines," said Harriet. "They would know
by my voice that I was English, and would detain me. Whatever we try to
do in the matter must be done to-night, because to-morrow will be too
late. Will you come with me, Peggy? I shall never ask aught else of
you."
"I will come," said Peggy, after a moment's thought. "I do believe that
father and mother will approve. And, Harriet, will thee give me back my
promise, if I do come?"
"Yes, Peggy. And further, my cousin, if you will but help me to get to
New York I will never act the spy again. I promise you that of my own
accord. 'Tis too much risk for a girl, and I have had my lesson."
"Oh, Harriet," cried Peggy. "If thee will only do that then I can tell
General Washington all the matter with light heart. I like not to think
of thee as a spy."
The tattoo had long since sounded. The house was still. The girls
dressed themselves warmly, and stole silently out of the dwelling down
to the stables where their horses were kept. Deftly they bridled and
saddled the animals, and then led them quietly to the lane which would
take them to the road.
In the distance the flames of the dying camp-fires flickered palely,
illumining the shadowy forms of the few soldiers grouped about them, and
accentuating the gloom of the encircling wood. A brooding stillness hung
over the encampment, broken only by the sough of the wind as it wandered
about the huts, or stirred the branches of the pines on the hills. The
army slept. Slept as only those sleep who have earned repose. They were
soldiers whose hardships and sufferings have scarcely a parallel in the
annals of history, yet they could sleep even though they had but hard
boards for a couch, and but a blanket or a little straw for covering.
Peggy started suddenly as the deep bay of a hound came to them from the
village of Bound Brook.
"Harriet," she whispered, "I am afraid. Let us wait until to-morrow."
"To-morrow will be too late," answered Harriet, and Peggy wondered to
hear how hard her voice sounded. "Do you want me hung, Peggy? Beside,
you promised that you would come. 'Tis the last time that I'll ever ask
favor of you."
"Yes, I know," answered Peggy, in a low tone. "I will go, Harriet; but I
wish now that I had not said that I would."
"Come," was Harriet's brief answer. And Peggy followed her into the
darkness.