"There is but one philosophy,
though there are a thousand schools--
Its name is fortitude."
--Bulwer.
The morning broke gloriously, and held forth the promise of a beautiful
day. So mild was the weather that it seemed more like a spring day than
the last of February. Out in the bay of the Raritan rode a sloop at
anchor, and toward this the shallop made its way. They were taken
aboard, and Harriet, who had left Peggy to her grief, now approached
her.
"We have been long without either rest or food, my cousin. Come with me
to breakfast. Then we will sleep until New York is reached."
Peggy vouchsafed her never a word, but taking a position by the taffrail
stood looking over the dazzling water toward the now receding shores of
New Jersey. Into the lower bay sailed the sloop, heading at once for the
narrows. Few sails were to be seen on the wide expanse of water save to
the left where, under the heights of Staten Island, a part of the
British fleet lay at anchor. Brilliant shafts of sunlight wavered and
played over the face of the water. Astern, as far as the eye could see,
lay the ocean, blank of all sail, the waves glinting back the strong
light of the east. Sky, water and shore all united in one sublime
harmony of pearls and grays of which the grandeur was none the less for
lack of vivid coloring.
The discordant note lay in Peggy's heart. She was full of the
humiliation and bitterness of trust betrayed. Humiliation because she
had been tricked so easily, and bitterness as the full realization of
her cousin's treachery came to her. And General Washington! What would
he think when she did not come to him as she had promised? He would deem
her a spy. And she was Peggy Owen! Peggy Owen--who had prided herself on
her love for her country. Oh, it was bitter! Bitter! And so she stood
with unseeing eyes for the grand panorama of bay and shore that was
unfolding before her.
The wind was favorable, yet it was past one of the clock before the
vessel made the narrows, glided past Nutten's[[2]] Island, and finally
came to anchor alongside the Whitehall Slip. Harriet, who had remained
below the entire journey, now came on deck looking much refreshed.
"You foolish Peggy!" she cried. "Of what use is it to grieve o'er what
cannot be helped? Think you that I did not wish to be with my people
when I was in the rebel camp?"
"Thee came there of thine own free will," answered Peggy coldly, "while
I am here through no wish of mine. Why did thee bring me?"
"Out of affection, of course," laughed Harriet. "Ah! there is father on
the shore waiting for us."
"I thought thee said that he was in the South," Peggy reminded her.
"One says so many things in war time," answered Harriet with a shrug of
her shoulders. "Perchance I intended to say Clifford."
"And so you are come to return some of our visits, my little cousin,"
cried Colonel Owen, coming forward from the side of a coach as they came
ashore. "'Twas well thought. 'Twill be delightsome to return some of
your hospitality."
"Oh, Cousin William," cried she, the tears beginning to flow, "do send
me back to my mother! Oh, I do want my mother!"
"Tut, tut!" he rejoined. "Homesick already? You should have considered
that when you planned to come with Harriet."
"When I what?" exclaimed Peggy, looking up through her tears.
"Planned to come with Harriet," he repeated impatiently. "She wrote some
time since that she would bring you. Come! The dinner waits. We have
prepared for you every day for a week past. I am glad the waiting is
over. Come, my cousin."
And Peggy, seeing that further pleading was of no avail, entered the
coach, silently determined to make no other appeal. A short drive
brought them to a spacious dwelling standing in the midst of large
grounds in the Richmond Hill district, which was situated on the western
side of Manhattan Island, a little removed from the city proper. The
building stood on an eminence commanding a view of the Hudson River and
the bay, for at that time there were no houses or other buildings to
obstruct the vision, and was surrounded by noble trees. A carefully
cultivated lawn even then, so mild had been the winter, showing a little
green stretched on one side as far as the road which ran past the house.
On the other was the plot for the gardens, while in the rear of the
mansion the orchard extended to the river bank. On every hand was
evidence of wealth and luxury, and Peggy's heart grew heavy indeed as
she came to know that Colonel Owen's poverty had been but another of
Harriet's fabrications.
She sat silent and miserable at the table while Harriet, who was in high
spirits, related the incidents of the past few days: the finding of the
note in the roadway, the warning of the governor and the brigade, and
how she had been petted and praised for her heroism. Her father and
Captain Greyling, who had accompanied them home, laughed uproariously at
this.
"Upon my life, my cousin," cried William Owen, "I wonder not that you
are in the dumps. Fie, fie, Harriet! 'twas most unmannerly to steal such
a march upon your cousin. For shame! And did our little cousin weep out
her pretty eyes in pique that you were so fêted?"
But Peggy was in no mood for banter. There was a sparkle in her eyes,
and an accent in her voice that showed that she was not to be trifled
with as she said clearly:
"No, Cousin William, I did not weep. It mattered not who gave the
warning so long as the governor and the brigade received it. It was most
fitting that Harriet should have the praise, as that was all she got out
of it. 'Twas planned, as thee must know, for her to receive a more
substantial reward."
"You have not lost your gift of a sharp tongue, I perceive," he answered
a flush mantling his brow. "Have a care to your words, my little cousin.
You are no longer in your home, but in mine."
"I am aware of that, sir. But that I am here is by no will of mine. If I
am used despitefully 'tis no more than is to be expected from those who
know naught but guile and artifice."
"Have done," he cried, rising from the table. "Am I to be railed at in
mine own house? Harriet, show this girl to her chamber."
Nothing loth Peggy followed her cousin to a little room on the second
floor, whose one window looked out upon the noble Hudson and the distant
Jersey shore.
"Aren't you going to be friends, Peggy?" questioned Harriet pausing at
the door. "I could not do other than I did. Father wished me to bring
you here."
"But why?" asked Peggy turning upon her. "Why should he want me here? Is
it to flout me?"
"I know not, Peggy. But be friends, won't you? There is much more sport
to be had here in the city than in yon camp. You shall share with me in
the fun."
"I care not for it," rejoined Peggy coldly. "And I will never forgive
thee, Harriet Owen. Never! I see not how thee could act so."
And so saying she turned from her cousin with unmistakable aversion, and
walking to the window gazed with aching heart at the Jersey shore line.
Harriet stood for a moment, and then went out, closing the door behind
her. Presently Peggy flung herself on the bed and gave way to her bitter
woe in a flood of tears. For what lay at the bottom of her bitterness?
It was the sharp knowledge that, with just a little forethought, a
little heeding of her mother's and John Drayton's warnings, all this
might have been avoided.
Human nature is very weak, and any grief that comes from our own
carelessness, or lack of thought is harder to bear than that woe which
is caused by untoward circumstances. But at last tired nature asserted
itself, and Peggy fell asleep.
Long hours after she awoke. It was quite dark in the room, and she was
stiff with cold. For a moment she fancied herself in her own little room
under the eaves at the camp, but soon a realization of where she was
came to her. She rose and groped her way to the window. The moon shone
upon the river and the Jersey shore. She looked toward the latter
yearningly.
"Mother," she whispered with quivering lips, "mother, what would thee
have me to do?" And suddenly it seemed to her that she could hear the
sweet voice of her mother saying:
"My daughter, thou must bear with meekness the afflictions that are sent
upon thee. Hast thou not been taught to do good to them that
despitefully use thee?" Peggy uttered a cry of protest.
"I cannot forgive them! They have behaved treacherously toward me. And
my country! 'Tis not to be endured that I should be placed in such
position toward it. 'Tis not to be endured, I say."
"Thou hast been close to sacred things all thy life, my child," sounded
that gentle voice. "Of what avail hath it been if thy actions are no
different from those of the world? And thou art not without blame in the
matter."
Long Peggy stood at the window. It seemed to her that her mother was
very near to her. And so communing with that loved mother the bitterness
died out of her heart, and she wept. No longer virulently, but softly,
the gentle tears of resignation.
"I will try to bear it," she murmured, as she crept between the covers
of the bed. "I will be brave, and as good as thee would have me be,
mother. And I will be so truthful in act and word that it may shame them
out of deceit. And maybe, maybe if I am good a way will be opened for me
to get back to thee."
And so she fell into a restful sleep.
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[2] Now Governor's Island.