And many a halcyon day he lived to see
Unbroken, but by one misfortune dire,
When fate had reft his mutual heart--but she
Was gone-and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's knee.
--Gertrude of Wyoming.
The father of Mr. Wharton was a native of England, and of a family whose
parliamentary interest had enabled them to provide for a younger son in
the colony of New York. The young man, like hundreds of others in this
situation, had settled permanently in the country. He married; and the
sole issue of his connection had been sent early in life to receive the
benefits of the English schools. After taking his degrees at one of the
universities of the mother country, the youth had been suffered to
acquire a knowledge of life with the advantages of European society. But
the death of his father recalled him, after passing two years in this
manner, to the possession of an honorable name, and a very ample estate.
It was much the fashion of that day to place the youth of certain
families in the army and navy of England, as the regular stepping-stones
to preferment. Most of the higher offices in the colonies were filled by
men who had made arms their profession; and it was even no uncommon
sight to see a veteran warrior laying aside the sword to assume the
ermine on the benches of the highest judicial authority.
In conformity with this system, the senior Mr. Wharton had intended his
son for a soldier; but a natural imbecility of character in his child
interfered with his wishes.
A twelvemonth had been spent by the young man in weighing the
comparative advantages of the different classes of troops, when the
death of his father occurred. The ease of his situation, and the
attentions lavished upon a youth in the actual enjoyment of one of the
largest estates in the colonies, interfered greatly with his ambitious
projects. Love decided the matter; and Mr. Wharton, in becoming a
husband, ceased to think of becoming a soldier. For many years he
continued happy in his family, and sufficiently respected by his
countrymen, as a man of integrity and consequence, when all his
enjoyments vanished, as it were, at a blow. His only son, the youth
introduced in the preceding chapter, had entered the army, and had
arrived in his native country, but a short time before the commencement
of hostilities, with the reinforcements the ministry had thought it
prudent to throw into the disaffected parts of North America. His
daughters were just growing into life, and their education required all
the advantages the city could afford. His wife had been for some years
in declining health, and had barely time to fold her son to her bosom,
and rejoice in the reunion of her family, before the Revolution burst
forth, in a continued blaze, from Georgia to Massachusetts. The shock
was too much for the feeble condition of the mother, who saw her child
called to the field to combat against the members of her own family in
the South, and she sank under the blow.
There was no part of the continent where the manners of England and its
aristocratical notions of blood and alliances, prevailed with more force
than in a certain circle immediately around the metropolis of New York.
The customs of the early Dutch inhabitants had, indeed, blended in some
measures, with the English manners; but still the latter prevailed. This
attachment to Great Britain was increased by the frequent
intermarriages of the officers of the mother country with the wealthier
and most powerful families of the vicinity, until, at the commencement
of hostilities, their united influence had very nearly thrown the colony
into the scale on the side of the crown. A few, however, of the leading
families espoused the cause of the people; and a sufficient stand was
made against the efforts of the ministerial party, to organize, and,
aided by the army of the confederation, to maintain an independent
republican form of government.
The city of New York and the adjacent territory were alone exempted from
the rule of the new commonwealth; while the royal authority extended no
further than its dignity could be supported by the presence of an army.
In this condition of things, the loyalists of influence adopted such
measures as best accorded with their different characters and
situations. Many bore arms in support of the crown, and, by their
bravery and exertions, endeavored to secure what they deemed to be the
rights of their prince, and their own estates from the effects of the
law of attainder. Others left the country; seeking in that place they
emphatically called home, an asylum, as they fondly hoped, for a season
only, against the confusion and dangers of war. A third, and a more wary
portion, remained in the place of their nativity, with a prudent regard
to their ample possessions, and, perhaps, influenced by their
attachments to the scenes of their youth. Mr. Wharton was of this
description. After making a provision against future contingencies, by
secretly transmitting the whole of his money to the British funds, this
gentleman determined to continue in the theater of strife, and to
maintain so strict a neutrality as to insure the safety of his large
estate, whichever party succeeded. He was apparently engrossed in the
education of his daughters, when a relation, high in office in the new
state, intimated that a residence in what was now a British camp
differed but little, in the eyes of his countrymen, from a residence in
the British capital. Mr. Wharton soon saw this was an unpardonable
offense in the existing state of things, and he instantly determined to
remove the difficulty, by retiring to the country. He possessed a
residence in the county of Westchester; and having been for many years
in the habit of withdrawing thither during the heats of the summer
months, it was kept furnished and ready for his accommodation. His
eldest daughter was already admitted into the society of women; but
Frances, the younger, required a year or two more of the usual
cultivation, to appear with proper _eclat_; at least so thought Miss
Jeanette Peyton; and as this lady, a younger sister of their deceased
mother, had left her paternal home, in the colony of Virginia, with the
devotedness and affection peculiar to her sex, to superintend the
welfare of her orphan nieces, Mr. Wharton felt that her opinions were
entitled to respect. In conformity to her advice, therefore, the
feelings of the parent were made to yield to the welfare of
his children.
Mr. Wharton withdrew to the Locusts, with a heart rent with the pain of
separating from all that was left him of a wife he had adored, but in
obedience to a constitutional prudence that pleaded loudly in behalf of
his worldly goods. His handsome town residence was inhabited, in the
meanwhile, by his daughters and their aunt. The regiment to which
Captain Wharton belonged formed part of the permanent garrison of the
city; and the knowledge of the presence of his son was no little relief
to the father, in his unceasing meditations on his absent daughters. But
Captain Wharton was a young man and a soldier; his estimate of character
was not always the wisest; and his propensities led him to imagine that
a red coat never concealed a dishonorable heart.
The house of Mr. Wharton became a fashionable lounge to the officers of
the royal army, as did that of every other family that was thought
worthy of their notice. The consequences of this association were, to
some few of the visited, fortunate; to more, injurious, by exciting
expectations which were never to be realized, and, unhappily, to no
small number ruinous. The known wealth of the father and, possibly, the
presence of a high-spirited brother, forbade any apprehension of the
latter danger to the young ladies: but it was impossible that all the
admiration bestowed on the fine figure and lovely face of Sarah Wharton
should be thrown away. Her person was formed with the early maturity of
the climate, and a strict cultivation of the graces had made her
decidedly the belle of the city. No one promised to dispute with her
this female sovereignty, unless it might be her younger sister. Frances,
however, wanted some months to the charmed age of sixteen; and the idea
of competition was far from the minds of either of the affectionate
girls. Indeed, next to the conversation of Colonel Wellmere, the
greatest pleasure of Sarah was in contemplating the budding beauties of
the little Hebe, who played around her with all the innocency of youth,
with all the enthusiasm of her ardent temper, and with no little of the
archness of her native humor. Whether or not it was owing to the fact
that Frances received none of the compliments which fell to the lot of
her elder sister, in the often repeated discussions on the merits of the
war, between the military beaux who frequented the house, it is certain
their effects on the sisters were exactly opposite. It was much the
fashion then for the British officers to speak slightingly of their
enemies; and Sarah took all the idle vaporing of her danglers to be
truths. The first political opinions which reached the ears of Frances
were coupled with sneers on the conduct of her countrymen. At first she
believed them; but there was occasionally a general, who was obliged to
do justice to his enemy in order to obtain justice for himself; and
Frances became somewhat skeptical on the subject of the inefficiency of
her countrymen. Colonel Wellmere was among those who delighted most in
expending his wit on the unfortunate Americans; and, in time, Frances
began to listen to his eloquence with great suspicion, and sometimes
with resentment.
It was on a hot, sultry day that the three were in the parlor of Mr.
Wharton's house, the colonel and Sarah seated on a sofa, engaged in a
combat of the eyes, aided by the usual flow of small talk, and Frances
was occupied at her tambouring frame in an opposite corner of the room,
when the gentleman suddenly exclaimed,--
"How gay the arrival of the army under General Burgoyne will make the
city, Miss Wharton!"
"Oh! how pleasant it must be," said the thoughtless Sarah, in reply; "I
am told there are many charming women with that army; as you say, it
will make us all life and gayety."
Frances shook back the abundance of her golden hair, and raised her
eyes, dancing with the ardor of national feeling; then laughing, with a
concealed humor, she asked,--
"Is it so certain that General Burgoyne will be permitted to reach the
city?"
"Permitted!" echoed the colonel. "Who is there to prevent it, my pretty
Miss Fanny?"
Frances was precisely at that age when young people are most jealous of
their station in society; neither quite a woman, nor yet a child. The
"pretty Miss Fanny" was too familiar to be relished, and she dropped her
eyes on her work again with cheeks that glowed like crimson.
"General Stark took the Germans into custody," she answered, compressing
her lip; "may not General Gates think the British too dangerous to go
at large?"
"Oh! they were Germans, as you say," cried the colonel, excessively
vexed at the necessity of explaining at all; "mere mercenary troops; but
when the really British regiments come in question, you will see a very
different result."
"Of that there is no doubt," cried Sarah, without in the least partaking
of the resentment of the colonel to her sister, but hailing already in
her heart the triumph of the British.
"Pray, Colonel Wellmere," said Frances, recovering her good humor, and
raising her joyous eyes once more to the face of the gentleman, "was
the Lord Percy of Lexington a kinsman of him who fought at Chevy Chase?"
"Why, Miss Fanny, you are becoming a rebel," said the colonel,
endeavoring to laugh away the anger he felt; "what you are pleased to
insinuate was a chase at Lexington, was nothing more than a judicious
retreat--a--kind of--"
"Running fight," interrupted the good-humored girl, laying a great
emphasis on the first word.
"Positively, young lady"--Colonel Wellmere was interrupted by a laugh
from a person who had hitherto been unnoticed.
There was a small family apartment adjoining the room occupied by the
trio, and the air had blown open the door communicating between the two.
A fine young man was now seen sitting near the entrance, who, by his
smiling countenance, was evidently a pleased listener to the
conversation. He rose instantly, and coming through the door, with his
hat in his hand, appeared a tall, graceful youth, of dark complexion,
and sparkling eyes of black, from which the mirth had not entirely
vanished, as he made his bow to the ladies.
"Mr. Dunwoodie!" cried Sarah, in surprise; "I was ignorant of your being
in the house; you will find a cooler seat in this room."
"I thank you," replied the young man, "but I must go and seek your
brother, who placed me there in ambuscade, as he called it, with a
promise of returning an hour ago." Without making any further
explanation, the youth bowed politely to the young women, distantly and
with hauteur to the gentleman, and withdrew. Frances followed him into
the hall, and blushing richly, inquired, in a hurried voice,--
"But why--why do you leave us, Mr. Dunwoodie? Henry must soon return."
The gentleman caught one of her hands in his own, and the stern
expression of his countenance gave place to a look of admiration as he
replied,--
"You managed him famously, my dear little kinswoman; never--no, never,
forget the land of your birth; remember, if you are the granddaughter of
an Englishman, you are, also, the granddaughter of a Peyton."
"Oh!" returned the laughing girl, "it would be difficult to forget that,
with the constant lectures on genealogy before us, with which we are
favored by Aunt Jeanette; but why do you go?"
"I am on the wing for Virginia, and have much to do." He pressed her
hand as he spoke, and looking back, while in the act of closing the
door, exclaimed, "Be true to your country--be American." The ardent girl
kissed her hand to him as he retired, and then instantly applying it
with its beautiful fellow to her burning cheeks, ran into her own
apartment to hide her confusion.
Between the open sarcasm of Frances, and the ill-concealed disdain of
the young man, Colonel Wellmere had felt himself placed in an awkward
predicament; but ashamed to resent such trifles in the presence of his
mistress, he satisfied himself with observing, superciliously, as
Dunwoodie left the room,--
"Quite a liberty for a youth in his situation; a shop boy with a bundle,
I fancy."
The idea of picturing the graceful Peyton Dunwoodie as a shop boy could
never enter the mind of Sarah, and she looked around her in surprise,
when the colonel continued,--
"This Mr. Dun--Dun--"
"Dunwoodie! Oh, no--he is a relation of my aunt," cried the young lady,
"and an intimate friend of my brother; they were at school together, and
only separated in England, when one went into the army, and the other to
a French military academy."
"His money appears to have been thrown away," observed the colonel,
betraying the spleen he was unsuccessfully striving to conceal.
"We ought to hope so," added Sarah, with a smile, "for it is said he
intends joining the rebel army. He was brought in here in a French ship,
and has just been exchanged; you may soon meet him in arms."
"Well, let him--I wish Washington plenty of such heroes;" and he turned
to a more pleasant subject, by changing the discourse to themselves.
A few weeks after this scene occurred, the army of Burgoyne laid down
their arms. Mr. Wharton, beginning to think the result of the contest
doubtful, resolved to conciliate his countrymen, and gratify himself, by
calling his daughters into his own abode. Miss Peyton consented to be
their companion; and from that time, until the period at which we
commenced our narrative, they had formed one family.
Whenever the main army made any movements, Captain Wharton had, of
course, accompanied it; and once or twice, under the protection of
strong parties, acting in the neighborhood of the Locusts, he had
enjoyed rapid and stolen interviews with his friends. A twelvemonth had,
however, passed without his seeing them, and the impatient Henry had
adopted the disguise we have mentioned, and unfortunately arrived on the
very evening that an unknown and rather suspicious guest was an inmate
of the house, which seldom contained any other than its regular
inhabitants.
"But do you think he suspects me?" asked the captain, with anxiety,
after pausing to listen to Caesar's opinion of the Skinners.
"How should he?" cried Sarah, "when your sisters and father could not
penetrate your disguise."
"There is something mysterious in his manner; his looks are too prying
for an indifferent observer," continued young Wharton thoughtfully, "and
his face seems familiar to me. The recent fate of Andre has created much
irritation on both sides. Sir Henry threatens retaliation for his death;
and Washington is as firm as if half the world were at his command. The
rebels would think me a fit subject for their plans just now, should I
be so unlucky as to fall into their hands."
"But my son," cried his father, in great alarm, "you are not a spy; you
are not within the rebel--that is, the American lines; there is nothing
here to spy."
"That might be disputed," rejoined the young man, musing. "Their pickets
were as low as the White Plains when I passed through in disguise. It is
true my purposes are innocent; but how is it to appear? My visit to you
would seem a cloak to other designs. Remember, sir, the treatment you
received not a year since, for sending me a supply of fruit for
the winter."
"That proceeded from the misrepresentations of my kind neighbors," said
Mr. Wharton, "who hoped, by getting my estate confiscated, to purchase
good farms at low prices. Peyton Dunwoodie, however, soon obtained our
discharge; we were detained but a month."
"We!" repeated the son, in amazement; "did they take my sisters, also?
Fanny, you wrote me nothing of this."
"I believe," said Frances, coloring highly, "I mentioned the kind
treatment we received from your old friend, Major Dunwoodie; and that he
procured my father's release."
"True; but were you with him in the rebel camp?"
"Yes," said the father, kindly; "Fanny would not suffer me to go alone.
Jeanette and Sarah took charge of the Locusts, and this little girl was
my companion, in captivity."
"And Fanny returned from such a scene a greater rebel than ever," cried
Sarah, indignantly; "one would think the hardships her father suffered
would have cured her of such whims."
"What say you to the charge, my pretty sister?" cried the captain gayly;
"did Peyton strive to make you hate your king, more than he
does himself?"
"Peyton Dunwoodie hates no one," said Frances, quickly; then, blushing
at her own ardor, she added immediately, "he loves you, Henry, I know;
for he has told me so again and again."
Young Wharton tapped his sister on the cheek, with a smile, as he asked
her, in an affected whisper, "Did he tell you also that he loved my
little sister Fanny?"
"Nonsense!" said Frances; and the remnants of the supper-table soon
disappeared under her superintendence.