HADLEY IS CAST OFF BY UNCLE EPHRAIM
The army of occupation brought in its train plenty of Tories and
hangers-on besides the men named, though none who had been quite so
prominent in affairs or were so greatly detested. It now behooved the
good folk of pronounced Whig tendencies to walk circumspectly, for
enemies lay in wait at every corner to hale them before the British
commander and accuse them of traitorous conduct. Hadley Morris,
therefore, although he did not expect to be recognized by anybody in
the town, resolved to get away as soon as his wound would allow.
He could not resist, however, going out at sunset to observe the
evening parade of the conquerors. There was something very fascinating
for him in the long lines of brilliant uniforms and the glittering
accoutrements. The British looked as though they had been simply
marching through the country on a continual dress parade. How much
different was the condition of even the uniformed Continentals!
To the strains of martial music the sun sank to rest, and as the
streets grew dark the boisterous mirth of the soldiery disturbed those
of the inhabitants who, fearful still of some untoward act upon the
part of the invaders, had retired behind the barred doors of their
homes. In High Street and on the commons camp fires were burning, and
Hadley wandered among them, watching the soldiers cooking their evening
meal. Most of the houses he passed were shut; but here and there was
one wide open and brilliantly lighted. These were the domiciles where
the officers were quartered, or else, being the abode of “faithful”
Tories, the proprietors were celebrating the coming of the king’s
troops. Laughter and music came from these, and the Old Coffee House
and the Indian Queen were riotous with parties of congratulation upon
the occupation by the redcoats.
As Hadley hobbled back to Master Pye’s past the tavern, he suddenly
observed a familiar face in the crowd. A number of country bumpkins
were mixing with the soldiery before the entrance to the Indian Queen,
and Hadley was positive he saw Lon Alwood. Whether the Tory youth
had observed him or not, Hadley did not know; but the fact of Lon’s
presence in the city caused him no little anxiety and he hurried
on to the Quaker’s abode. He wondered what had brought Lon up to
Philadelphia--and just at this time of all others?
“The best thing I can do is to get out of town as quick as
circumstances will permit,” thought Hadley, and upon reaching Friend
Pye’s he told the old Quaker how he had seen somebody who knew him in
the city--a person who would leave no stone unturned to injure him if
possible.
“We must send thee away, then, Hadley,” declared the Quaker. “Where
wilt thou go with thy wounded leg?”
“I’ll go home. There isn’t anything for a wounded man to do about here,
I reckon. But the leg won’t hobble me for long.”
“Nay, I hope not. I will see what can be done for thee in the morning.”
Friend Jothan Pye was considered, even by his Tory neighbors, to be
too close a man and too sharp a trader to have any real interest in the
patriot cause. He had even borne patiently from the Whigs much calumny
that he might, by so doing, be the better able to help the colonies.
Now that the British occupied the town, he might work secretly for the
betterment of the Americans and none be the wiser. He had already gone
to the British officers and obtained a contract for the cartage of
grain into the city for the army, and in two days it was arranged that
Hadley should go out of town in one of Friend Pye’s empty wagons, and
he did so safely, hidden under a great heap of empty grain sacks. In
this way he traveled beyond Germantown and outside the British lines
altogether.
Then he found another teamster going across the river, and with him he
journeyed until he was at the Mills, only six miles from the Three Oaks
Inn. Those last six miles he managed to hobble with only the assistance
of his crutch, arriving at the hostelry just at evening. Jonas Benson
had returned from Trenton and the boy was warmly welcomed by him.
Indeed, that night in the public room, Hadley was the most important
person present. The neighbors flocked in to hear him tell of the Paoli
attack and of the occupation of Philadelphia, and he felt like a
veteran.
But he could not help seeing that Mistress Benson was much put out with
him. As time passed the innkeeper’s wife grew more and more bitter
against the colonists. She had been born in England, and the presence
of Colonel Knowles and his daughter at the inn seemed to have fired her
smoldering belief in the “divine right,” and had particularly stirred
her bile against the Americans.
[Illustration: THERE WAS AN OCCASIONAL OUTBREAK IN THE QUIET TOWN]
“I’m sleepin’ in the garret, myself, Had,” groaned Jonas, in an aside
to the boy. “I can’t stand her tongue when she gets abed o’ nights.
I’m hopin’ this war’ll end before long, for it’s a severin’ man and
wife--an’ sp’ilin’ business, into the bargain. She’s complainin’ about
me keepin’ your place for ye, Had, so I’ve got Anson Driggs for stable
boy. And, of course, she won’t let me pay Miser Morris your wage no
more. I didn’t know but she’d come down from her high hosses when them
Knowlses went away, but she’s worse ’n ever!”
“Have the Colonel and Mistress Lillian gone?”
“They have, indeed--bad luck to them!--though I’ve no fault to find
with the girl: she was prettily spoken enough. But the Colonel had been
recalled to his command, I understand. His business with your uncle
came to naught, I reckon. D’ye know what it was, Had?”
Hadley shook his head gloomily. “No. Uncle would tell me nothing. But
the Colonel seemed very bitter against him.”
“And what d’ye think of doing?”
“I’m not fit for anything until this wound heals completely. I can’t
walk much for some time yet. But I’ll go over and see Uncle in the
morning.”
“Ride Molly over. There’s no need o’ your walking about here. And come
back here to sleep. Likely Miser Morris will be none too glad to see
ye. Your bed’s in the loft same’s us’al. Anson goes home at night. The
place is dead, anyway. If this war doesn’t end soon I might as well
burn the old house down--there’s no money to be got by keeping it open.”
On the morrow Hadley climbed upon Black Molly and rode over to the
Morris homestead. Most of the farmers in the neighborhood had harvested
their grain by this time. The corn was shocked and the pumpkins gleamed
in golden contrast to the brown earth and stubble. In some fields he
saw women and children at work, the men being away with the army. The
sight was an encouraging one. Despite the misfortunes and reverses of
General Washington’s army, this showed that the common people were
still faithful to the cause of liberty.
News, too, of an encouraging nature had come from the north. The battle
of Bennington and the first battle of Stillwater had been fought.
The army of Burgoyne, which was supposed to be unconquerable, had
been halted and, even with the aid of Indians and Tories, the British
commander could not have got past General Gates. News traveled slowly
in those days, but a pretty correct account had dribbled through the
country sections; and there was still some hope of Washington striking
a decisive blow himself before winter set in.
The signs of plenty in the fields as he rode on encouraged Hadley
Morris, who had seen, of late, so many things to discourage his hope in
the ultimate success of the American arms. When he reached his uncle’s
grain fields he found that they, too, had been reaped, and so clean
that there was not a beggar’s gleaning left among the stubble. He rode
on to the house, thinking how much good the store of grain Ephraim
Morris had gathered might do the patriot troops, were Uncle Ephraim
only of his way of thinking.
As he approached the house the watch dog began barking violently, and
not until he had laboriously dismounted before the stable door did
the brute recognize him. Then it ran up to the boy whining and licked
his hand; but as Uncle Ephraim appeared the dog backed off and began
to bark again as though it were not, after all, quite sure whether to
greet the boy as a friend or an enemy. Evidently the old farmer had
been in like quandary, for he bore a long squirrel rifle in the hollow
of his arm, and his brows met in a black scowl when his gaze rested on
his nephew’s face.
“Well, what want ye here?” he demanded.
“Why, Uncle, I have come to see you--”
“I’m no uncle of yours--ye runaway rebel!” exclaimed the old man,
harshly. “What’s this I hear from Jonas Benson? He says ye are not at
his inn and that he’ll no longer pay me the wages he promised. If that
doesn’t make you out a runaway ’prentice, then what does it mean?”
“Why, you know, Mistress Benson is very violent for the king just now--”
“Ha!” exclaimed the farmer. “I didn’t know she had the sense to be.
It’s too bad she doesn’t get a little of it into Jonas.”
“Well, she doesn’t want me around. And Jonas can’t pay two of us.”
“She wouldn’t have turned ye off if ye’d stayed where ye belonged,
Hadley Morris. Oh, I know ye--and I know what ye’ve been doing of
late,” cried the farmer. “Ha! lame air ye? What’s that from?”
“I got a ball in my leg--”
“I warrant. Crippling yourself, too. Been fighting with the ‘ragamuffin
reg’lars,’ hey? An’ sarve ye right--sarve ye right, I say!” The old
man scowled still more fiercely. “And now that you’ve got licked, ye
come back home like a cur with its tail ’twixt its legs, arskin’ ter be
taken in--hey? I know your breed.”
“If you don’t want me here I can go away again,” Hadley said, quietly.
“What would I want ye for? You’re a lazy, good-for-nothing--that’s
what ye air! There’s naught for ye to do about the farm this time
o’ year--an’ crippled, too. Ye’d never come back to me if that ball
hadn’t hit ye. Ye’d stayed on with that Mr. Washington ye’re so fond
of talking about. Ha! I’m done with ye! Ye’ve been naught but an
expense and a trouble since your mother brought ye here--and she was an
expense, too. I’m a poor man; I can’t have folks hangin’ ter the tail
o’ my coat. Your mother--”
“Suppose we let that drop, sir,” interrupted Hadley, firmly, and his
eyes flashed. “Everybody in this neighborhood knows what my mother was.
They know that she worked herself into her grave in this house. And if
she hadn’t begged me to stay here as long as I could be of any use to
you, I’d never stood your ill treatment as long as I did. And now,”
cried the youth, growing angrier as he thought of the slurring tone his
uncle had used in speaking of the dead woman, “it lies with you whether
you break with your last relative on earth or not. I will stand abuse
myself, and hard work; but you shan’t speak one word against mother!”
“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the old man. “The young cock is crowing, heh?
Who are you that tells me what I should do, or shouldn’t do?” Hadley
was silent. He was sorry now that he had spoken so warmly. “Seems to
me, Master Hadley, for a beggar, ye talk pretty uppishly--that’s it,
uppishly! And you are a beggar--ye’ve got nothing and ye never will
have anything. I’ll find some other disposal to make of my farm here--”
“I’m not looking for dead men’s shoes!” flashed out the boy again.
“You’ve had my time, and you’ve a right to it for three years longer.
If you want to hire me out as soon as my wound is well, you can do so.
I haven’t refused to work for you.”
“Yah!” snarled the old man. “Who wants to hire a boy at this time
of the year? The country’s ruined as it is--jest ruined. There’s no
business. I tell you that you’re an expense, and I’d ruther have your
room than your company.”
Hadley turned swiftly. He had clung to Black Molly’s bridle. Now he
climbed upon the horse block and, in spite of his wound, fairly flung
himself into the saddle. “You’ve told me to go, Uncle Ephraim!” he
exclaimed, with flaming cheeks. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” and,
pounding his heels into the mare’s sides, he set off at a gallop along
the path, and in a moment was out of sight of the angry farmer.
There was bitterness in the boy’s heart and angry tears in his eyes as
Black Molly fled across the pastures and out upon the highway. Hadley
Morris did not really love his uncle. There was nothing lovable about
Miser Morris. The boy had been misjudged and his mother spoken ill
of--and that fact he could not forget. He had tried for a year and a
half to keep from a final disagreement with Uncle Ephraim; but to no
avail. The old man did not consider Hadley old enough to judge for
himself, or to have any opinions of his own. The times were such that
children grew to youth and young men to manhood very rapidly. When the
fathers went to the war the sons became the providers and defenders of
the household; if the fathers did not go, the sons were in the ranks
themselves. Questions were not asked regarding age by the recruiting
officers, providing a youth looked hearty and was able to carry a
musket. And Hadley felt himself a man grown in experience, if not in
years, after the exciting incidents of the past few weeks.
“I am able to judge for myself in some things,” he told himself,
pulling Molly down to a walk, so as to ease his leg. “If Uncle would
accept the fact that I have a right to my own opinion, as he has a
right to his, we never would have quarreled. I’d never gone over to
the Three Oaks to work. And then I’d never seen any active service, I
s’pose. He’s got only himself to thank for it, if he did not want me to
join the army.
“But now, I reckon, there isn’t anything left for me to do but that.
Jonas can’t have me and keep peace in the family; and I wouldn’t stay
after the way Mistress Benson talked last night--no, indeed. I’ll go
to some of the neighbors. They’ll give me a bite to eat and a place to
sleep till my leg gets well enough for me to walk. Then I’ll go back to
the army.”
He so decided; but when Jonas heard his plan he vetoed it at once.
“What, Had!” cried the old innkeeper, “d’ye think I’ll let a nagging
woman drive you away from here to the neighbors? Nay, nay! I’m master
here yet, and she is not really so bad, Had. She doesn’t begrudge ye
the bite and sup. Stay till your leg is well.”
“But I shall not feel comfortable as long as I stay, Jonas,” declared
the boy.
“And how long will that be? Your leg is mending famously. If you could
but ride ye’d be fit to go into battle again now. Ah, lad, I’m proud of
you--and glad that it was part through me ye went to the wars. I can’t
go myself; but I can give of what I have, and if the mistress does
not like it she can scold--’twill make her feel better, I vum.” Then
he looked at Hadley curiously. “You’re anxious to get back to General
Washington again, eh, lad?”
“I wish I had hunted up Captain Prentice, or Colonel Cadwalader, when
I got out of Philadelphia, instead of coming over here,” admitted the
youth.
“Then start back now,” Jonas said. “Ride Molly--she knows ye, and ye’ll
get back in time to be of some use, mayhap, for I heard this morning
that there’s a chance of another battle in a day or two.”
“Take Molly, sir?” cried the astonished boy.
“Yes. Most of my horses have already gone to the cause. I’ve got a
packet of scrip, as they call it, for ’em, but it’s little worth the
stuff is now, and perhaps it will never be redeemed. But I’m a poor
sort of a fellow if I mind that. You take Molly. I know if you both
live you’ll come back here. And if she is killed--”
The innkeeper stopped, for his voice had broken. He was looking hard at
the boy’s flushed face, and now he reached up and gripped Hadley’s hand
with sudden warmth. The youth knew that it was not the thought of the
possible loss of Black Molly that had choked the worthy innkeeper, but
the fear that, perhaps, her rider would never come back again.
“I’ll take her, Jonas--and thank you. I’ll be happier--better content,
at least--away from here. Uncle doesn’t want me, nor does he need me;
and certainly Mistress Benson doesn’t wish me about the inn. So I’ll
take Molly, and if all comes well you shall have her back safe and
sound.”
“That’s all right--that’s all right, Had!” exclaimed the other,
quickly. “Look out when them army smiths shoe her. She’s got just the
suspicion of a corn on that nigh fore foot, ye know. And take care of
yourself, Had.”
He wrung Hadley’s hand again and the boy pulled the little mare around.
There was nothing more to be said; there was nothing to keep him back.
So Hadley Morris rode away to join Washington’s forces, which then lay
idle near the beleaguered city.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
[Illustration]
Mary Lane’s Higher Education
By Marguerite Stables
Mrs. Lane dropped down on the door-step and fanned herself with her
apron. “It does beat all,” she said, aloud to herself, “how trifling
these heathens are. Here I am paying seven dollars a week to this
miserable Chinaman to do nothing but the cooking, and now if he doesn’t
slip off without a word and leave me to do all the work.”
“Don’t bother about it, mamma,” answered Mary Lane, with an abstracted
air, “_pingo_, irregular, we can eat, _pingere_, anything. It’s too hot
to worry, _pinxi_, _pinctum_.”
Mary meant to be kind, but as she hunched her shoulders over her book
again, her mother’s trials were entirely out of her mind. But for once
in her life the overworked woman’s patience forsook her. “I’ve got to
bother,” she said, wearily, “what with a houseful of city boarders,
and this being quarterly conference and the ministers coming here to
dinner, and that heathen away. I can’t let it go, I’ve got to bother.”
Then she arose and walked away quickly so her plaints should not
disturb her daughter’s studying.
A few moments later a gentle knock was heard at the door, and--“Mamma
says she would like to have screens put into her windows, Mrs. Lane,”
said a crisp-looking young girl who put her head into the door, “and
the water won’t run upstairs, and we need more--why, what in the world
is the matter?” she finished abruptly, for poor Mrs. Lane had put down
her pitcher, looking as if this was the last straw.
“Everything is the matter,” the tired woman answered, and motioned the
girl into the hall to explain that all her troubles seemed to have
culminated that morning and that the ministers were to be there for
dinner.
“Can’t you get any one to help you?” the girl asked, looking
inquiringly through the door at Mary.
“No, she’s too busy studying; I wouldn’t have her stop preparing for
her Latin examination for anything; she is going to have a higher
education, you know,” she added, with a touch of pride.
The youthful summer boarder looked down at the tired little woman
with a bright smile. “Oh, Mrs. Lane, I’m coming right in to help you,
myself,” she said; “I just love to do things in the kitchen, honestly
I do,” commencing to take off her rings and rolling up her sleeves, as
she saw Mrs. Lane had not fully grasped what she had said.
“No, you must not stay in this hot place,” the woman said, noticing
the stiff collar and freshly starched duck skirt; “and, besides,” she
continued, to herself, as she remembered how some of her boarders, last
summer, had tried to have a candy-pull and had set the house on fire,
“I can’t be bothered now showing her. I know how these city girls work.”
But by this time the “city girl,” unconscious of Mrs. Lane’s thoughts,
had one of the latter’s big kitchen aprons tied around her waist and
was waving a wooden spoon by way of punctuating her orders.
“Now, Mrs. Lane, I’m the new hired girl, Blanche is my name, and
although I have no recommendation from my last place to give you, I
assure you I am honest and willing. You don’t know how I just love to
get a chance to fuss around a kitchen; it is such a change from the
grind of--” Here the potatoes boiled over and she flew to take off the
lid.
The morning wore away much more peacefully for Mrs. Lane than it had
begun. Many steps were saved her by the “new girl’s” watchfulness, and
there were even several bursts of merry laughter from the buttery,
which dispelled more clouds than the real assistance did.
“I may not be so skilled in making bread and doing the useful things,”
Blanche apologized, “for I have taken only the ‘classical course’
in cookery. Nettie and I spent last summer down at Aunt Cornelia’s
while the rest of the family were in Europe, and she told us we could
do whatever we pleased, and what do you suppose we chose? I chose
puttering around the kitchen, and Nettie took to hoeing the weeds out
of the vegetable garden. And it was such fun!”
The ministers came earlier than they were expected, and Mrs. Lane was
hurried out of the kitchen to put on her good dress, with a pledge to
secrecy as to the force in the culinary department.
By dinner-time, the Chinaman, having unexpectedly put in his
appearance, was waiting on the table as if nothing had happened, but
Mrs. Lane was too nervous and apprehensive at first even to notice how
different the table looked. There were roses everywhere, a gorgeous
American Beauty at each place, and the fish globe in the centre of the
table was full of them; but they were all of one variety. Mrs. Lane
thought secretly that when the larkspurs and hollyhocks were so fine it
did seem a pity not to mix a few in just to give it a little style. She
had grave doubts as to the salad when she saw it brought on, although
she was bound to admit the yellow-green lettuce looked very pretty,
garnished with the bright red petals; but when she tasted it she was
reassured. She could not make out what it was made of, but she only
hoped it seemed as palatable to every one else as it did to her.
The boarders were all delighted with this new departure, and attributed
it to the presence of the ministers, consequently they warmed toward
them with a friendliness born of gratitude, and the ministers in their
turn did their utmost to return the graciousness and courtesy of
the boarders, till the board might have been surrounded by a picked
number of congenial friends, so beautifully did everything progress.
“Brother” Mason eyed the array of forks and spoons at his plate
somewhat suspiciously, wondering if he had them all and was expected to
pass them along, but Blanche clattered hers so ostentatiously that he
noticed she had the same number and was satisfied.
The success of the next course was due to Mrs. Lane, for the “new
girl” explained to the mistress that meats and vegetables did not come
in the “classical course.” “Brother” Hicks talked so volubly about
foreign missions that Mary did not notice that even the currant jelly
was made to do its part in developing the color scheme of the table and
that it matched the roses as exactly as if it had been made after a
sample. But when the cake was brought in and set before her to be cut
she thought at the first glance it was another flower piece, but she
saw the quick, approving glance shot from her mother to Miss Blanche,
and suspected the new boarder might have suggested its design. It was
set on the large, round wooden tray used to mash the sugar in. Even
the frosting was tinted an American Beauty pink, and around its base
a garland of the same glowing roses. Through the jumble of irregular
verbs and the rules for indirect discourse the secret suddenly dawned
upon her. It was the city girl who walked with her head so high and
wore such beautiful dresses who had made the dinner such a success,
while she--but that was different, she was preparing for college.
Mrs. Lane was complacent and happy the remainder of the evening and
less tired than she had been for many days, and when the ministers took
their leave of her the Presiding Elder said, “I shall remember this
evening and the beautiful repast you have given us for a long time to
come, Sister Lane.”
[Illustration: “I SHALL REMEMBER THE BEAUTIFUL REPAST FOR A LONG TIME
TO COME, SISTER LANE,” SAID THE PRESIDING ELDER]
Blanche’s bright eyes sparkled with fun, and Mary, although she could
not have told why, felt just a bit uncomfortable. “Isn’t it interesting
to know that our English words _transfer_ and _translate_ come from the
same root?” she said, presently, in her own mind trying to vindicate
herself for not helping her mother.
“Oh, don’t,” broke in Blanche, laughingly, “talk about the dirty old
roots under ground when we have these glorious flowers that grow on
top.”
It had grown too dark for any one to see the pity in Mary’s smile for
this frivolous city-bred girl who wasted her time on amusements and
learning a little chafing-dish cooking, and didn’t even know what a
Latin root was.
Blanche’s mother was kept in her room the next day with a headache,
so Blanche’s time was divided between taking care of her invalid and
lending a hand to Mrs. Lane till she could get another cook. Mrs. Lane
had never expected Mary to help her; knowing how hard her own life
had been, she was trying to fit her for a teacher, but as she watched
Blanche flying about the house, setting the table, rolling out her
cheese straws, running up and down to her mother’s room with a patch of
flour on her curly hair, and singing gayly about her work, her tired
eyes followed the young girl wistfully. It would be worth a great deal,
she admitted, to have a daughter like that, even if she had not a word
of Latin in her head. But, of course, the higher education could not be
interfered with by the old-fashioned way of bringing up a daughter, and
Mary took to books.
“I am going to college this fall if I pass the entrance examinations,”
Mary announced at the lunch table, with just a touch of superiority in
her tone. She could not have explained just why she felt so resentful
toward the city girl.
“Are you going East, or will you stay out here on the coast?” Blanche
asked, as if it were the most every-day thing to go to college.
“I have not decided yet, for I shall be the only girl anywhere around
here who has gone to college,” she answered, nibbling one of Blanche’s
cheese straws with an evident relish.
“Have another,” Blanche interrupted, passing her the plate with a hand
that showed two burns and a slight scald. “We used to serve them with
tamales when our friends came down from town to the trial foot-ball
games.”
“Why, I thought you lived in San Francisco?” Mary said, looking up in
surprise.
“I do,” Blanche answered, “but I’ve been down at Stanford the last four
years, and have just finished this last semester.”
Mary’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “Why,” she began,
incredulously, “I thought you--you--” She did not like to say she had
thought that the sunny-faced girl before her had no appreciation of
education because she liked to do useful, domestic things, too.
“You thought I could do nothing but cook?” Blanche finished, laughingly.
But Mary did not answer. Blanche Hallsey was certainly not much older
than she, and yet, with all her college education, she had been in the
kitchen all that hot morning, kneading bread and scouring silver for
Mrs. Lane.
“If you decide to go to Stanford, I can write to some of the girls to
look out for you,” Blanche went on, for she had not noticed Mary’s
attitude of superiority the last few days.
“Oh, would you, please?” Mary Lane pleaded, in a tone that would have
greatly surprised her mother had she heard it, for not even she guessed
how the fear of going among strangers for the first time in her life
had been haunting her diffident little girl.
It was several days, however, before Mary, with her forehead puckered
into knots over the “ablative absolute,” could bring herself to knock
at Miss Hallsey’s door, and ask for a little assistance.
But that was the beginning of the end of Mary Lane’s priggishness,
and the first step toward a higher education in the true sense of the
word. She passed her entrance examinations with honors, due, perhaps,
to the patient coaching she received during the rest of the summer from
Blanche Hallsey. She learned, too, besides irregular verbs, a great
many other things fully as useful, topping off with what the college
girl called “a classical course in cookery.”
CHEERFULNESS
A merry heart, a smiling face,
Are better far than sunny weather;
A noble life and charming grace,
Like leaves and flowers, grow well together.
--_Carter._
LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS
BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD