BY COURIER POST
BY COURIER POST
It had been a wild night, find the morning wind sobbed and sighed through the elms, which, denuded of their leaves, stood out tall and bare against the leaden sky, and there was a chill in the air that might betoken snow. Pamela Wolcott stood in the sitting-room window and sighed softly, as she gazed out at the November landscape, letting her fingers beat soft tattoo against the lozenge-shaped pane.
"Pamela," said Betty from the depths of a big chair, where she sat busily knitting a little stocking whose proportions suggested Miss Moppet, "I wish you would stop that devil's march. Believe me, you had much better come and talk to me, and so drive away the vapors, rather than stand there and worry over the whereabouts of Josiah."
"It will take more than that to drive away the thoughts I cannot help," said Pamela, coming back from the window and seating herself on the wide settle, for Pamela was somewhat given to seeking the warmest corner, and dreaded a New England winter. "It is full time I had some intelligence, for Josiah promised that he would take advantage of any courier who started for New London to dispatch me a letter, and you know that father had news two days since from Morristown, but nothing came for me. Betty, I am sore afraid of evil tidings."
"You are ever faint-hearted," said Betty, glancing compassionately at her sister.
"And I dreamed last night of a wedding," went on Pamela, "and that, you know, is an evil sign."
"Best not let Aunt Euphemia hear you," Replied Betty, with a smile. "You have been consulting Chloe, I am sure, as to the portents of dreams. Fie, Pamela; Josiah is strong and well, and there is not likely to be a movement of the troops just now, father says, so why worry? I am anxious because we hear nothing of Clarissa, and I think Aunt Euphemia is the same, for I heard her talking and sighing last night when Miss Bidwell carried up the night light. Dear Clarissa, how I wish I could see her again; I wonder if she be quite, quite happy shut up in New York among the Tories."
"No doubt; though when she married Gulian Verplanck we had little thought of the occupation of New York by the British. Do you recollect how pretty she looked on her wedding-day, Betty, and the little caps you and I wore,—mine with a knot of blue, and yours of rose-color? I found that ribbon one day last week, tucked away in a little box. Have you kept yours?"
"No," returned Betty, with a sudden blush and a quick, half-guilty throb of her heart, as she remembered in whose hand she had last seen that same bow of rose-color; "that is, I had it until last summer, when—I lost it." And Betty dropped two stitches in her confusion, which fortunately Pamela was too much engrossed in her own thoughts to notice.
"It is five years last May," said Pamela. "You and I were tiny things of ten and eleven years, and Oliver strutted about grand and dignified in a new coat. The first wedding in our family—I wonder whose be the next?"
"Yours, of course." said Betty quickly. "That is if you and Josiah can ever make up your minds. I will not be like you, Pamela, trust me, when my turn comes I'll know full well whether I will or I won't." And Betty tossed her saucy head with a mischievous laugh as there came a rap on the front door which caused both girls to start up and fly to the window.
"Why, 'tis Sally Tracy," cried Betty. "I did not know she had returned from her visit to Lebanon." And she ran rapidly along the hall, and opening the door, embraced her friend with all a girl's enthusiasm.
"Welcome, Sally," said Pamela, as the pair came hand in hand towards her, "Betty has been moping ever since you left, and had a desperate fit of industry from sheer loneliness. I really believe she has made a stocking and a half for Moppet—or was it a pair, Betty?"
"The second pair, if you please," retorted Betty, rejoiced to see Pamela smile, even if at her own expense; "and Miss Bidwell says they are every bit as fine as yours."
"They may well be that," said Pamela, whose pet detestation was the manufacture of woolen stockings (then considered one of the component parts of a girl's education in New England). "But Sally is such a marvelous knitter that she will no doubt rejoice at your success. Had you as severe weather in Lebanon as this? I am fearful that we will have a hard winter, the cold has set in so early."
"They have had one flurry of snow already," Sally answered, "but not so much wind as we of Litchfield rejoice in. But I had a merry visit and saw much company. Dolly bemoaned daily that you could not come, Pamela."
"I am to go later, after or about the day set apart for Thanksgiving. But you and Betty have much to say to each other, and I will not interrupt you; Miss Bidwell has something for me to do, I'll warrant; so, farewell for the present, Sally." And Pamela left the room.
"Come, sit beside me on the settle," said Betty, putting Sally in the warmest seat. "Your fingers are cold, and the room is not yet sufficiently warm. Well,"—with a significant smile,—"what have you to tell me?"
"Not what you think," with a smiling nod, "for Francis Plunkett is far too pressing for my taste,'' answered Sally.
"Ha, ha," quoth Betty, much amused, "is that the way you take it? Then I foresee that Francis will win for his much speaking."
"Indeed he will not; I teased him well the last evening, and he dare not resume the subject for a while at least."
"Then there is some one else," said Betty. "Can it be that Oliver"—
"Oh, no," cried Sally hastily; "Oliver has not such an idea, believe me, Betty."
"How can you answer for him?" retorted Betty, laughing. "But your tone answers for yourself, so I must guess again. I think I have heard something of a handsome young lawyer from Branford"—
"Fie!" cried Sally, in her turn averting her face quickly, but not before Betty had perceived her heightened color, "I have but met him three times, and there are plenty of other personable men as well as he, for while one stops with Dolly the officers from Fort Trumbull are ever coming and going, you know."
"Ah, Sally, you are growing giddy, I fear," continued Betty with comical pretense of solemnity. "I think it behooves me to caution you."
"Caution me, indeed!" laughed Sally. "Wait until we both go, as we all are invited to Hartford with Dolly this winter when the Assembly meets, and then see if you be not fully as giddy as I am."
"I do not believe that I can go to Hartford, Sally; you know Pamela is more Dolly's friend than mine, and I think she needs some diversion, for ever since Josiah had his commission and joined the Continental army, she has nearly moped herself to death. And Pamela is like my mother, not very strong; I can see that Aunt Euphemia is somewhat troubled about her even now, so perhaps our fine schemes for a trip to Hartford may have to be given up, at least so far as my going is concerned."
Sally's face fell; the visit to Hartford had been so long talked of, and Betty's presence so much desired, that this was a dash of the coldest possible water.
"Oh, Betty, how truly sorry I shall be. But let us hope for the best. It will be a sad breaking up of all my plans for the winter if you cannot come. I was also to stop at Fairfield with Mrs. Sherman, but since the raid of last summer her health has been so shattered that all thoughts of visitors have to be abandoned, and therefore I was counting upon our merry visit to Dolly as compensation."
Sally looked so melancholy at this point that Betty took her hand and was about to take a rather more hopeful view of things, but the words died on her lips as the clatter of a horse's feet was heard outside, and both girls ran to the window in time to see the rider draw rein at the south door of the mansion and dismount in apparent haste.
"It is some dispatch," said Betty breathlessly. "Did you not see the bag he carried at the saddle? And there is my father—oh, Sally, I wonder if there be news from General Washington and the army?" and struck by the sudden fear of ill-tidings the girls ran hastily from the room.
In the wide hall stood Miss Bidwell, and beside her the stranger, saddle-bag in hand, as Miss Euphemia emerged from the dining-room, whence General Wolcott had preceded her.
"From the commander-in-chief, general," said the courier, touching his battered hat in salute, "and special dispatches from General Steuben. Also this private packet, which was lying waiting at King's Bridge Inn; I have been four days on the road, owing to my horse having lamed himself when near Chatham, and I could not make time on the nag which stands at your door."
"King's Bridge," murmured Miss Euphemia; "then there is news of Clarissa. Brother, have I your permission?"—as General Wolcott gave the small packet into her hand.
"Break the seals," said the general briefly, "and bring me the letters presently to my study. See that the horse and man be well taken care of; I may have to dispatch instant answer to these," and he went quickly down the hall, closing the door behind him.
With fingers that trembled somewhat, Miss Euphemia opened the cover, and disclosed three letters to the eager eyes of the girls, who stood breathless beside her.
"One for your father (it is Gulian Verplanck's hand), this for me, from Clarissa, and the smaller one for you, Betty; let us go into the sitting-room and read ours together."
"None for me?" said Pamela's despairing voice, with a sob treading on the words; "oh, I fear me some evil has befallen Josiah."
"No, no," whispered Betty, stealing her hand lovingly into her sister's, as she pulled her gently into the room; "father has the dispatches; these are but the long-looked-for letters from New York, Pamela, and I'll wager there is something from Josiah among father's packets. Let us see what my letter says," and Betty, having seated Pamela and Sally on the settle, placed herself on a convenient cricket, and broke the seal of her letter. But before her eyes had time to see more than "Dearest Betty," she was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from her aunt.
"Clarissa has been at death's door," cried Miss Euphemia, startled out of her usual composure. "I knew this long silence boded no good. Listen, I will read it," and the three girls gathered round her chair at once.
"Dear and Honored Aunt" (ran the letter), "I take up my pen, after many days of pain and dire distress, to send loving greetings to you, my Beloved father, and my dear sisters. For the hand of death was nearly upon me; thank God that I am still preserved to my dear Husband and to you.
"It was a very malignant and severe attack of Fever, and Gulian procured the services of no less than three Physicians, as for days I laid unconscious. My little baby died at two hours old, and I never saw him. Alas, how I have suffered! I am now very weak, altho' able to be dressed and sit up each day. This is my first letter; and I pine so sorely for you, my dear ones, that my dear Husband permits me to write, and begs with me that you will permit one of my sisters to come to me and cheer my heart"—
"Come to her! Good lack!" cried impetuous Betty, interrupting the reader, "how is one to go when the British are in occupation?"—
"How, indeed," sighed Miss Euphemia; "but perhaps the letter will tell," and she resumed her reading, after wiping her eyes softly. "Where was I?—oh"—
"Father will no doubt be able to procure a pass from General Washington, which will admit the bearer into the City, and Gulian will himself be ready when you advise us, and will await you at King's Bridge Inn. Dear Aunt, send me some one soon, and let me see a dear home face, else I shall die of grief and homesickness, far from my own people.
"Your loving and obedient niece,"CLARISSA VERPLANCK."
By this time Pamela was sobbing aloud, and tears flowed down Miss Euphemia's cheeks, but Betty sprang to her feet with a little impatient stamp, crying,—
"Aunt, aunt, which of us shall go? Pamela, you are a gentle and charming nurse; shall it be you?"
"I!" sighed Pamela; "oh, I would go to the world's end for Clarissa."
"But this is to go to New York," cried Betty, with unconscious irony; "and as we can neither of us go alone, why could not my father arrange for one of us to accompany Mrs. Seymour, who leaves shortly to be near her brother for the winter? Did you not tell me, Sally, that she was going to New York?"
"Yes," answered Sally Tracy, "she has been making all manner of preparations, for, as you know, her brother is imprisoned in the city; and since her acceptance of the pleasure coach from the Mayor of New York (which he presented her with when he was released from Litchfield gaol), she has been pining to go to him. And, beside, she travels in her coach as far as possible; and my mother said last night that General Washington was to send her safe-conduct through our lines to the city."
"We must first consult your father," said Miss Euphemia gravely, much upset by the suggestion of making up her mind to do anything in haste, for she was a very deliberate person, and despised hurried decisions. "I will find him as soon as he has finished the dispatches, and, moreover, this letter to him from Gulian may have directions. I incline to think that you, Betty, will be the one to go. Pamela can scarce bear the journey in this weather," and gathering her papers carefully in her hand, Miss Euphemia left the room, and the girls gazed blankly at each other with startled eyes and throbbing hearts.
WHAT FOLLOWED A LETTER
WHAT FOLLOWED A LETTER
"It was all decided last night," said Betty, tucking her little feet carefully under her gown and clasping her knees with her hands to keep them warm, as she sat in Moppet's chair, which stood close by the fire, where a log burned and crackled in the big chimney—a most unusual luxury for those days, and granted only to Moppet's youth and slight delicacy of constitution. "Father found the pass from General Washington among his dispatches brought by the courier; and as it includes Mrs. Seymour's maid, he arranged with her that I go instead, as Mrs. Seymour kindly says she can procure another attendant in New York. I can scarce believe it possible, Sally. Oh, fancy my having to live in a city occupied by the British!"
"Ah," sighed Miss Moppet, pressing her head against Betty's knee, and a spark of interest lighting up her doleful little face, "if only some of them be like my good"—
"Oh, some of the Tories may be passably amusing," said Betty hastily, giving Moppet a warning glance, as she checked the words on the child's lips by a soft touch of her hand. "I doubt not that Gulian, my brother-in-law, has fine qualities, else Clarissa had not been so fond of him as to leave us all and go so far from us. But I trust that even Gulian may not see fit to talk loyalist to me; my naughty tongue would get me into trouble straightway."
"You must learn to control your tongue, Betty," said Moppet primly, with a roguish twinkle of her eyes upward. "Miss Bidwell says mine is an unruly member, and told me a most dire tale of a little girl whose mother for punishment pricked her tongue with a hot bodkin."
"Ugh!" cried Sally, with a shudder, "that was in Puritan days, truly."
"I do not crave the hot bodkin," said Betty, laughing. "Miss Bidwell's tales are a trifle gruesome, Moppet."
"But I always do love a flimming tale, Betty" (this was Moppet's invariable rendering of the word "thrilling," which her lips had never yet conquered), "and some of them are most bloody ones, I assure you. Oh, Betty, Betty, whatshallI do when you are gone!" and with a sudden realization of her loss, Moppet gave a quick sob which went to Betty's heart.
"Nay, sweetheart, be a brave little maid," she answered, fighting a small lump in her own throat. "I would I could take you with me; but as I cannot, you must hasten to learn how to make better pot-hooks and write me letters, which Aunt Euphemia will forward with hers. And, Moppet, I think I shall give you in special charge to Sally; how will that please you?"
"I love Sally," said the child simply, as the tender-hearted Sally knelt down beside her. "Will you help console me with my primer and that altogether dreadful sampler when my Betty is away?"
"Indeed will I," replied Sally, much amused with Moppet's view of the sampler; "and you shall come and see me every fine day, and the wet ones I am sure to be here with Pamela, who has proclaimed her intention of adopting me when Betty goes. And now I must be going, for it is nearly the dinner hour, and my mother says as I have dined here three days she bespeaks my presence for one out of four. So farewell until to-morrow, Betty, when I shall be here to see you start upon your travels."
Betty was busy enough all that day; indeed, nothing more than a confused recollection remained with her afterward of trunk and two small boxes to be packed; of Pamela's urging her acceptance of a new lute-string slip, rose-colored, which had recently come to her from Boston; of Miss Bidwell's innumerable stockings all tucked carefully away in one corner of the hair-covered brass-nailed box, and even Miss Moppet's tenderly cherished blue bag embroidered in steel beads, which had belonged to their mother, but which Moppet insisted could be used by Betty with great effect for her handkerchief at a ball.
"Ball, indeed," sighed Betty, whose brave heart was beginning to quail at thought of an untold length of separation from her beloved family. "I should think the hearts of the patriots imprisoned in New York would scarce be occupied with balls in such times as these."
"You mistake," said Pamela, who, truth to tell, half longed for Betty's opportunities, for was not her sister going somewhere near Josiah's post? "I am sure Clarissa's letter which you read me bade you bring all your best gowns and finery, and we have all heard how gay the army of occupation make the city."
"Aye, to those who are Tories," said Betty, with curling red lips, "but for me—oh, Miss Bidwell, if you put in another pair of stockings I shall require as many feet as a centipede, who I read has hundreds of them."
"Hundreds of feet?" echoed Miss Moppet. "Oh, Betty, do I live to hear you tell a fairy tale as if it were real?"
"Read your primer, and you will learn many wonderful things," quoth Betty, snatching up the child in her arms. "I shall take you straightway to bed, for we must be up betimes in the morning, you know."
Very carefully and tenderly did Betty bathe Moppet's sweet little face, comb and smooth the pretty curling hair, so like her own save in color, and then run the brass warming-pan, heated by live coals, through the sheets lest her tender body suffer even a slight chill. And when Moppet was safely lodged in bed Betty sat down beside her to hold her hand until she dropped asleep. But between excitement and grief the child's eyes would not close, and she asked question after question, until Betty finally announced she should answer no more.
Moppet lay still for some moments, and just as Betty was beginning to fancy that the long, dark eyelashes worn curling downward in sleepy comfort the dark blue eyes opened, and a dancing imp of mischief gleamed from their depths in Betty's face.
"When you meet Captain Yorke, Betty," whispered Moppet, "be sure you tell him how Oliver and Josiah hunted and hunted that morning, and how I never, never told"—
"Moppet," said Betty, turning a vivid pink in the firelight, "how can you!"—
"Yes," pursued Moppet relentlessly, "and you give him my love—heaps of it—and I just hope he may never get taken a prisoner during the whole war again."
"Go to sleep, dear," answered Betty, biting her lip; but her cheeks did not grow cool until long after the soft, regular breathing told that her little sister had gone into the land of dreams.
The Wolcott household was up early that cold winter morning, when Mrs. Seymour's coach, with its pair of sturdy, strong gray horses, drew up at the front door. It took some twenty minutes to bestow Betty's trunk and boxes on the rumble behind, during which time Mrs. Seymour alighted and received all manner of charges and advice from Miss Euphemia, who, now that Betty was fairly on the wing, felt much sinking of heart over her departure. Mrs. Seymour, a pretty young matron, whose natural gayety of spirit was only subdued by the anxiety she was suffering in regard to her only brother, now a prisoner in New York (and for whose exchange she was bringing great influence to bear in all directions), listened with much outward deference and inward impatience to the stately dame, and turned with an air of relief to General Wolcott when he announced that all was ready for their departure, and with much courtliness offered his hand to conduct her to her coach.
"That you will take the best care of my daughter I am assured, madam," said the gallant gentleman. "It is our great good fortune to have found this opportunity and your kind escort, for owing to the shortness of time I have not been able to notify my son-in-law of Betty's coming. But as you are going into the city yourself, I depend upon you to keep her with you until you can place her safely in Gulian Verplanck's hands. I trust that you have General Washington's pass close by you? It is quite possible that you may need it even before you reach White Plains; there are many marauding parties who infest the country beyond us."
"It is here, general," replied Mrs. Seymour, touching the breast of her gown. "I thought it well to carry it about my person, as I am told that even the Hessians respect General Washington's safe-conduct to enter New York."
Betty, with crimson cheeks, but brave smiling eyes, threw her arms fondly around Miss Euphemia, Pamela, Sally, and Miss Bidwell, all in turn, but Moppet's soft cry as she buried her face in her hands made her lip quiver, and as she bent her head for her father's farewell, a reluctant tear forced itself down her cheek.
"The God of our fathers be with you, my daughter," he said, taking her in his arms; "my love and blessing to Clarissa and her husband. Remain with them until I find safe opportunity to have you return to us; advise us often of your health and, I trust, continued well-being; keep a brave heart as befits your name and lineage; fare you well, fare you well!"
Betty sank back trembling into her seat beside Mrs. Seymour, the door was closed, and as the coach rolled off she caught a parting glimpse of Miss Moppet lifted high in General Wolcott's arms, kissing her hand fondly as she waved good-by.
INSIDE BRITISH LINES
INSIDE BRITISH LINES
"Drat that knocker!" said Peter Provoost.
The house stood on Wall Street, and to the fact that it like a few others has been built of brick, it owed its escape from the fire which ravaged, the city in 1776, the fire which also destroyed old Trinity Church, leaving the unsightly ruin standing for some years in what was aristocratic New York of the period. It was a square, comfortable-looking mansion, with the Dutchstoepin front, and the half-arch of small-paned glass above the front door, which was painted white and bore a massive brass knocker. That same knocker was a source of much irritation to Peter Provoost; for although he was of fair size for his thirteen years, he could barely reach it when mounted on the very tips of his toes, and even then never dared touch its shining surface unless his fingers were clean—a desirable state of neatness which, alas! did not often adorn the luckless Peter. For though tidy and careful enough when appearing before his guardians, Mr. and Mrs. Verplanck, it must be confessed that going to and from school Peter was prone to lay down both books and hat, oftentimes in the mud, and square himself pugnaciously if he chanced to meet one of the boys of the "Vly Market," who were wont to scoff and tease the Broadway boys unmercifully; and fierce battles were the frequent outcome of the feeling between the two sections, and in those Peter invariably took part.
The family was a small one, and consisted of Gulian Verplanck and his wife, his grandmother, Mrs. Effingham, a lovely old Quakeress, and Peter, who, having lost both parents at an early age, had remained in Albany with his other guardian, Mr. Abram Lansing, until some six months before, when it was decided that he should go to New York and be under the Verplanck eye; and although Peter had rebelled much against the plan in the first place, he found himself much happier under Clarissa's gentle rule, and positively adored her in consequence. The only lion in Peter's path at present was the strong Tory proclivity of the head of the house; and although he had been warned by his Albany friends to be prudent and respectful, the boy had inherited a sturdy patriotism which burned all the more hotly for its repression.
On this cold December afternoon Peter stood, books in hand, and surveyed that aggravating knocker from his stand on the sidewalk. He was painfully conscious that his feet were muddy, and his chubby fingers certainly needed soap and water; it was Friday, and Pompey, one of the black servants, had evidently been scrubbing the front steps. Therefore Peter debated whether it would be wiser to skirt around the mansion and gain entrance by the area steps, where no doubt he would encounter Dinah, the cook (who objected to invasions of unclean shoes), or boldly ascend the front steps, struggle with that balefully glittering knocker, and trust to Pompey's somewhat dim eyes to escape remonstrance before he could gain his own room and make himself presentable. The chances of a scolding seemed pretty equally balanced to Peter, and he heaved a deep sigh and put his foot on the first immaculate step before him as a hand fell on his shoulder and a merry voice said behind him:—
"What in the world are you pondering, Peter? I have watched you since I turned the corner of Broadway, and truly for once have seen you stand absolutely still. In some scrape with the Vly boys, I'll warrant; do you wish me to come in and plead for you?" and Kitty Cruger tripped lightly up the steps as she beckoned Peter to follow.
"Now you have done it—not I!" said Peter, with a mischievous chuckle, as he tore up after her.
"Done what?" asked mystified Kitty. She and Peter were fast friends.
"Muddied the clean steps," quoth Peter with gleeful brevity.
"Have I?" glancing down carelessly until she saw each dainty footprint plainly depicted on the white marble, side by side with Peter's heavier tracks. "Oh, what a shame," reaching up successfully to the brass knocker; "but I am sure Pompey will forgive me, and you can"—stopping short as the door opened and Pompey himself stood bowing low in the hall.
"Good-day, missy," said he, for Kitty Cruger was a frequent and welcome visitor at the Verplancks'. "Miss Clarissa is pretty well to-day, thank you, and ole madam is in the drawing-room—Law!" catching sight of Peter, who was skillfully slipping down the hall in Kitty's wake. "Dat you, Massa Peter? Reckon you better hurry, for it's mos' time for dinner, sah."
But Peter, with great discretion, paused not for reply as he vanished up a back stair-case and reached his own chamber, panting but triumphant.
"Good-day, dear grandma," said Kitty, crossing the hall as Pompey held open the door of the drawing-room; "I was detained by reason of the sewing-bee at the Morrises', and have barely time to see you and ask for Clarissa."
"How does thee do?" said Grandma Effingham, drawing her little drab shawl more closely around her shapely shoulders as she laid down her knitting. "I am pleased to see thee. Clarissa is somewhat stronger to-day; thee knows she has been more like her old self since Gulian dispatched the letters asking that one of her sisters be allowed to come to her. The poor child pines for a home face; it is natural; thee sees she has been long absent from her people."
"Surely it is almost time to get some reply," said Kitty, as she kissed the dear old Quakeress, for Kitty was one of Mrs. Effingham's grandchildren, although her mother had been read out of meeting for having married one of the "world's people." "I doubt that Clarissa will shortly begin to worry and grow ill again unless kind Providence sends some tidings."
"Nay, nay," said grandma gently. "If thee had half Clarissa's patience it would be thy gain, Kitty."
Grandma was such a quaint, pretty picture, as she sat in her straight-backed chair, with her Quaker cap and steel-gray silk gown, her sleeves elbow-cut, displaying still plump and rounded arms (although she was nearly seventy), and her smooth white fingers flew rapidly in and out of the blue yarn as she resumed her knitting of Peter's stocking. Peter was rather a godsend to grandma in the matter of stockings; no wool that was ever carded could resist his vigorous onslaughts, and it kept grandma busy all her spare moments to supply his restless feet with warm covering.
"Patience," echoed Kitty, with a comical sigh. "Nay, grandma, give me a few more years without it."
"Fie," said grandma, gazing at the bright face with her indulgent eye; "eighteen is full late to begin to learn to conform to thy elders. I was married and the twins were born at thy age, Kitty."
"Good lack," quoth Kitty. "Where are the men nowadays, grandma? Save for the redcoats, and I am not so daft over Sir Henry Clinton's gay officers as some—no doubt't is my Quaker blood—except for the officers, where are our gallants? Some of mine are up the Hudson beyond the neutral ground, others with the rebels at Morristown."
"Hush," said grandma, with an uneasy glance toward the door; "do not talk of rebels in this house; hadn't thee better run up and see Clarissa?"
"If Miss Kitty pleases," spoke the voice of Pompey at the door, "will she walk upstairs? Young madam wants to see her."
"Coming," said Kitty, kissing grandma fondly, and then following Pompey as he marched gravely up to open the door of Mrs. Verplanck's morning-room. It was a tiny apartment; for when Gulian Verplanck brought his young bride home he had added a room to the wing below, and as it greatly enlarged their bedroom, the happy idea had struck him to throw up a partition, corner-ways, which formed an irregularly shaped room opening on the passage, and gave Clarissa her own cherished den in that great house of square rooms and high ceilings. In it she had placed all her home belongings; her spinnet, which had been her mother's (brought by sloop to New York from New Haven), found the largest space there, and her grandmother's small spinning-wheel was in the corner near the chimney-piece which Gulian had contrived to have put in lest his delicate wife might suffer with cold.
Near the small log which blazed brightly on the hearth, in a low chair made somewhat easy with cushions, sat a fair, fragile-looking, girlish figure, in whose mournful dark eyes was something so pathetic that it suggested the old-time prophecy that such "die young." Clarissa Verplanck in that resembled none of her family, and the one reason for her father's and aunt's anxiety about her was that she was thought the image of a sister of her mother who fulfilled the prophecy. Be that as it may, Clarissa was anything but a mournful person in general; her spirits were somewhat prone to outrun her physical strength, and therefore her sad little appeal for one of her sisters to cheer her had come in the light of a demand to the Litchfield home, and alarmed them more than anything else could have done.
"Kitty, Kitty," said Clarissa, holding out a welcoming hand to her visitor, who seated herself on a cricket beside her, "why have you not been in this four days? I am truly glad to see you, for ever since Gulian and I dispatched our letters to my father I have been so cross and impatient that I fear my good husband is beginning to tire of his bargain, and lament a peevish wife."
"Heaven forgive you for the slander," retorted Kitty, laughing; "if ever there was a husband who adored the ground you walk on, Gulian is"—
"Thank you," said a quiet voice, as a tall dark man entered from the bedroom.
"Let me finish my sentence—Gulian is that benighted swain," burst in Kitty.
"Again, my thanks," answered Gillian gravely. To none but Clarissa was he ever seen to relax his serious manner; perhaps hers were the only eyes who saw the tenderness behind the stern, reserved exterior. He really liked his cousin; but although Kitty was not, like most people, afraid of him, it must be confessed that he wearied her, and she much preferred to have her gossip with Clarissa, when Gulian was safely out of the house.
"And now tell me about the letters," pursued Kitty. "You sent for your sister, grandma told me. Which one, Clarissa?"
"Indeed, I do not know; I left the choice to my father, but I think—I hope it may be Betty. I only wish I might have Moppet as well," and the quickly checked sigh told Gulian's keen ears what the unuttered thought had been.
"Betty—let me see—is that the sister next yourself?"
"Oh, no; the sister next to me in age died in infancy. Then comes Oliver, and then Pamela, who is seventeen now, and next my Betty. How I wonder if the girls have changed; five years makes a long gap, you know, and even my imagination can scarce fill it. Do you fancy we will hear soon, Gulian?"
"I cannot tell," he said gently, thinking how often he had sought reply to the same question in the past week, and longing tenderly to give her the expected pleasure.
"It may be that General Wolcott may find some chance opportunity to send his daughter at once, in which event you know there would scarce be time to hear before she would reach us."
"Oh, Gulian," cried Clarissa, clasping her hands, as a faint pink glow lit her pale face, "you did not say that before. If it were only possible"—
"Why not?" said Kitty encouragingly.
"But, Gulian, you said in the letter that you would await my sister at King's Bridge Inn. Surely you cannot go there and stop, waiting at the Inn for days?"
"I can ride out to-morrow, and, in fact, I hastened through some business at the wharf to-day which enabled me to have the day free. I can easily go to King's Bridge and inquire at the Inn for dispatches; you will not mind my being absent all day? Perhaps Kitty will come and bear you company while I am gone?"
"Right gladly," replied Kitty; "will you ride alone, Gulian?"
"I might, easily," said Gulian; "but when I procured a pass from Sir Henry Clinton yesterday (it is an eight days' pass, Clarissa) I found that Captain Yorke goes to-morrow to the neutral ground to inspect troops, and I think I shall take advantage of his company."
"I am glad of that," said Clarissa, putting her slender hand in Gulian's and looking with grateful eyes up at him, as he stood beside her chair. "Is he the aide-de-camp you told me of, Gulian, for whom you had taken a liking?"
"The same; a fine, manly fellow, the second son of Lord Herbert Yorke, one of my father's old friends in England. You were dancing with him at the De Lanceys' 'small and early,' were you not, Kitty, last week?"
"Yes," said Kitty, with a quick nod and a half frown, "he has the usual airs and graces of a newly arrived officer from the mother-country."
"Perhaps you find the colonists more to your mind," responded Gulian somewhat severely; but Clarissa gave his sleeve a warning twitch, as Kitty made answer with heightened color:—
"My own countrymen are ever first with me, as you know full well, Gulian, but one must dance sometimes to keep up one's heart in those times, and Captain Yorke has a passably good step which suits with mine."
What Gulian would have replied to this was never known, for at that moment an outcry arose in the hall, followed by the bump, bump of some heavy body rolling down the staircase, and Peter's boyish voice shouting out, between gasps of laughter,—
"Pompey, Pompey, I say!—it's nobody but me; oh, what a proper old goose it is; do, somebody come and thrash him."
In a second Gulian and Kitty were outside the door, and beheld at the foot of the winding stairs poor Pompey, picking himself up, with many groans and much rubbing of his shins, while Peter, rolling himself nearly double with laughter, stood midway of the flight, with a queer object in his hand which Gulian seized hastily.
"It's only a gourd," gasped Peter between paroxysms. "I kept it in my closet for a week, and half an hour ago I stole a bit of wick out of Dinah's pantry and dipped it well in melted tallow, and than stuck it inside, when, as you see, having carved out two eyes and a slit for the nose, it looks somewhat ghastly when the light comes forth."
"It's a debbil, debbil," cried Pompey. "Massa Peter sent me to find his skates, and dat awful face"—Pompey's teeth chattered, and Peter went off in a fresh burst of laughter.
"It soured him properly, Uncle Gulian; and though I ran after him and shook it (it only looks gruesome in the dark, you know) he never stopped, and he stumbled on the first step, and then he rolled—My! how he did bump"—and naughty Peter sat down on the stalls and held his sides for very merriment.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Gulian sternly, to whom practical jokes were an utter abomination, "and you deserve to be well punished. Pompey, stop groaning, and inform me at once whether you have sustained any injury by your fall."
"Law, Massa Gulian, you tink falling down dat stair gwine to hurt dis chile?" began Pompey, who entertained a warm affection for the mischievous Peter and dreaded nothing so much as a scolding from his master. "Dose stairs don't 'mount to nuffin; ef it had been de area steps dey moughten be dangerous. Massa knows boys mus' have dey fun: please 'cuse me for makin' such a bobbery."
"Well, I did it," said Peter sturdily, instantly sobered by the expression of his uncle's face, and his generous heart touched with Pompey's defense of his prank, "and nobody helped me, so let's have the whipping right off before dinner, please, Uncle Gulian, and then I can eat in peace—even if I am a trifle sore," wound up the sinner ruefully.
Gulian Verplanck's sense of humor was not keen, but the situation was too much for him, and a queer, grim smile lit up his eyes, as he said slowly:—
"As Pompey seems more frightened than hurt, and has interceded for you, I shall not punish you this time, Peter; but recollect that the very first occasion after this that you see fit to practice a joke on any member of my household, your skates will be confiscated for the remainder of the winter," and with a warning glance he followed Kitty back into his wife's room, leaving Pompey on the staircase, still rubbing his bruised shins, while the irrepressible Peter indulged once more in a convulsion of silent laughter which bent him double and threatened to burst every button off his tightly fitting jacket.
BETTY'S JOURNEY
BETTY'S JOURNEY
Mrs. Seymour, having had the advantage of some weeks to form her plans, had carefully arranged everything for her own comfort, so far as was possible, and Betty Wolcott, after the first pang of parting was over, began to enjoy the novelty of the journey most thoroughly. Except for a few days spent at Lebanon, Betty had never been from home in her life, and being, as we have seen, a bit of a philosopher in her own quaint fashion, after the first day spent in Mrs. Seymour's cheerful society she found herself much less homesick than she had expected. To begin with, the coach was, for those times, very comfortable. It was English-built, and had been provided with capacious pockets in unexpected places; it amused Betty exceedingly to find that she was seated over the turkey, ham, cake, and even a goodly pat of butter, carefully packed in a small stone jar, while another compartment held several changes of linen, powder, a small mirror, a rouge pot, and some brushes. Mrs. Seymour had been born and bred in New York, and many of her people were Tories; therefore she hoped to assist the brother who, breaking apart from the others, had taken up arms for the colonists.
Caesar, Mrs. Seymour's coachman, was a colored man of middle age, a slave of her father's, and, having been brought from New York to Connecticut, knew the route fairly well. They broke the journey first at a small roadside tavern, where the horses were baited, while Betty and Mrs. Seymour gladly descended, and warmed themselves well by the kitchen fire, taking a drink of warm milk, for which the good woman who had invited them inside refused payment. She was deeply interested when Mrs. Seymour told her of their errand, and followed them out to the door of the coach, bringing with her own hands the soapstone which she had carefully warmed for their feet, and she waved a kindly good-by as they rode off, delighted at seeing, for the first time in her life, a "pleasure coach."
The first night was spent by the travelers in Danbury, where they proceeded to the house of Mrs. Seymour's cousin, Mrs. Beebe, and were most warmly welcomed. The Beebe household, which consisted of Mrs. Beebe and seven children (Captain Beebe being with the Connecticut Rangers), trooped out, one and all, to meet them, to inspect the coach, interview Caesar, and admire the horses. Billy, the second boy, fraternized with Betty at once; and after learning all the mysteries of the coach pockets, helping Caesar to unharness, and superintending the fetching of an extra large log for the fireplace, he roasted chestnuts in the ashes as they sat around the chimney-piece, and told Betty thrilling stories of the attack on Danbury by the British.
"We dragged the feather-beds up to the window," said Billy, "and mother stuffed a pillow or two in the cracks. My, how the bullets did fly! The children were all bid to stay in the attic; but as the roof shelves, you know, it became pretty hot, especially when the fires began, and then mother did get frightened, more especially when she saw the blaze of the Woolford house, down the street. Didn't I just wish I was a man, to go and help father that day! Luckily for us, the wind was in the other direction; father said that was all that saved us."
"And Divine Providence, my son," said Mrs. Beebe's soft voice, as she laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Billy's only experience of war was a sharp one for a few hours. He has been longing ever since to join his father, but I can only find it in my mother's heart to rejoice that he is too young to do so. Now, Billy, light the candles; for if our friends must resume their journey to-morrow, it is full time to retire."
Betty found the little room assigned to her, with Billy's assistance, but before he left her he pointed out two small holes near the window frame, where bullets had entered and remained buried in the woodwork; and as Betty curled herself up in the centre of the great feather-bed, she thought, with a throb of her girlish heart, that perhaps she, too, might see some of the terrors of war before she returned to the shelter of her dear Litchfield home.
The next morning dawned cold and chilly; a few flakes of snow floated through the air, and Mrs. Beebe urged strongly the wisdom of lying over for twenty-four hours, lest a storm should come and render the roads impassable. But Mrs. Seymour, after a consultation with Caesar, decided that it was best to push on; winter was approaching, and each day made the journey less feasible. There was a fairly good road between them and White Plains, and now that she had started she was impatient to reach the city. Betty, too, was eager to be off, so with many warm thanks, they again packed the coach and said farewell to the hospitable Beebes, who had insisted on adding fresh stores of provisions to their hamper; and Billy's last act of friendliness was to slip into Betty's hand a package of taffy, of his own manufacture, which he assured her "was not over-sticky, provided you use care in biting it."
This part of the journey was cold and cheerless enough. The road wound somewhat, and the settlements were few, even the houses were far apart from each other; and although the hills were fewer, they heard Caesar admonish his horses more frequently than usual, and about four o'clock in the day they came to a full stop. The snow of the morning had turned into a sort of drizzling rain; and Caesar, dismounting from his seat, announced to his mistress that one of the horses had cast a shoe.
"What shall we do?" cried Mrs. Seymour in dismay, preparing to jump down into the mud and investigate matters.
"Dey's no use at all of madam's gettin' out," said Caesar, holding the door of the coach,—"no use at all. I'se done got de shoe, 'cause I saw it a-comin' off, an' here it is. De horse will do well enuf, 'caise I'll drive wif care; but what I wants to say is that, 'cordin' to my judgment, we had oughter take a turn to de right, just hyar, which am in de direction ob Ridgefield, whar I ken fin' a blacksmith's shop, shuh. Ef madam pleases, it's goin' somewhat out of de direct way to White Plains, but what wid de weather, which madam can see is obstreperous an' onsartain, I'm ob de opinion dat Ridgefield am de best stoppin' place for dis night, anyhow;" and having delivered himself of this exhortation, Caesar touched his hat respectfully, but with an air of having settled the question.
"Very well," said Mrs. Seymour, for she knew Caesar and Caesar's ways, and moreover had much confidence in his ability to take care of her, as well as of his horses. "Then take the turn to the right, as you propose. Are you quite sure you are familiar with the road here, Caesar? It will be dark soon, and I confess I should not like to lose our way."
"Not gwine to lose de road wid dis chile on de box," said Caesar with fine disdain, as he climbed to his seat and rolled himself up warmly again, his teeth chattering as he did so. But he said to himself, as the horses started slowly, "Pray de Lord I ain't mistooken; don't want to fall into none ob dem old redcoats' han's, Caesar don't, dat's sartain."
Inside the coach, which lumbered on so slowly that it almost seemed to crawl, Mrs. Seymour and Betty tried to keep up their spirits by an occasional remark of cheerful character, and Betty suggested that perhaps some bread and cheese from the Beebe larder would prove satisfactory to Caesar; but on asking the question Caesar only shook his head, and responded that he was too busy looking after the horses to eat; and the long hours dragged on as it grew darker and darker. Betty rested her head against the door and peered out at the dripping trees, whose bare limbs stood like skeletons against the leaden sky. Mrs. Seymour had sunk into a fitful doze by her side. Suddenly the off horse gave a plunge, the coach tilted far to one side, and then righted itself as Caesar's loud "Whoa, dar! Steady! steady!" was heard. Then Betty saw half a dozen shadowy forms surround them, and a voice said sharply, "Who goes there? Halt!" and a hand was laid roughly on the door of the coach.
"Pray who are you who detain ladies on a journey?" said Mrs. Seymour, addressing the man nearest her. "I am in my own coach with a maid on our way to New York, and one of my horses has cast a shoe."
"Stand aside there," said another voice impatiently, as an officer dismounted from his horse, and flung the rein to one of the men. "If you are bound to a city occupied by the British, you must have safe-conduct, madam, else we are compelled to search and detain you."
For answer, Mrs. Seymour drew out a folded paper, which the officer, straining his eyes in the fast-fading daylight, read aloud, as follows:—
"After the expiration of eight days from the date hereof, Mrs. Seymour and maid have permission to go into the city of New York and to return again."
"Given at Morristown this second day of December.