An Unwilling Maid Part 17

Pompey, somewhat alarmed at the tone and catching sight of Betty's white face and burning eyes, vanished on the instant. The girls drew into the shadow as far as they were able, and holding their breath peered into the darkness.

"What is that?" whispered Kitty, as a swift footstep crossed the piazza.

"Oh, 'tis Yorke! Have a care, Betty, or we are discovered," and she endeavored to drag her farther back against the wall. As she did so, the crouching figure of a man rose up against the trunk of one of the oak-trees on the lawn; it was Oliver. His padded coat cast off, they could dimly distinguish his tall slender form. Some singular instinct for which he could never account made Yorke pause as he set his foot on the threshold of the front door; he wheeled just in time to see Betty's face, as one pale ray from a distant lantern fell across it.

"Betty, what are you doing here?" he cried, darting to her side. At that instant a sound of voices broke on the stillness of the night; it came from behind the mansion in the direction of the pine woods.

"Kitty is ill," faltered Betty. "I am taking her home--do not, I pray you, detain me--oh, there is Pompey"--as the welcome sound of sleigh-bells rang out on the frosty air. "Geoffrey, Geoffrey, let me go!"

Her tone of agonized supplication went to Geoffrey's heart. Kitty flew down the steps into the sleigh, una.s.sisted, and Betty followed, her hand in Yorke's. There arose a hoa.r.s.e shout "The spy, the spy--he has escaped by the road!" and as Betty set her foot on the runner, a dark figure vaulted over Kitty and buried itself in the robes at the bottom of the sleigh.

"At last, sweetheart, I pay my debt," whispered Yorke in her ear, as he thrust Betty safely into the seat. "Pompey, drive for your life!" The startled negro needed no second bidding, down came the whip-lash on the horses' backs, and with a furious plunge, a mad rear, they were off, a quarter of a mile ahead before their pursuers turned the corner of the mansion.

Oh, that wild race through the snow! Even in after years, when long days of happiness had crowded out much of those stirring times from Betty's mind, a shudder would creep over her, and closing her eyes she could see again the tall gaunt trees, the frozen road, the snow that glittered so still and cold in the cruel starlight, and hear the distant shouts that she feared told of pursuit. On they flew, Oliver giving occasional directions to the trembling and excited Pompey. Now that he knew the danger, the faithful negro would have died sooner than fail to carry the fugitive into comparative safety. On, through the Lispenard meadows, on,--until they struck Broadway; no pursuers within sight, and at Crown Street Oliver bade him turn in the direction of the river, and drive down until he reached the slip which lay at the foot of the street. All was still. Save an occasional belated pedestrian, nothing seemed stirring, and as they neared the dingy old tavern at the Sign of the St.u.r.dy Beggar, Pompey pulled up his smoking, panting horses.

"Don't want to got too near dose lights," he said, pointing to the swinging lantern which adorned the hostelry; "da.r.s.en't let n.o.body see my young mistress; Ma.s.sa Gulian would flog Pompey for shuah if dis tale gets tole."

"You're right, Pompey," answered Oliver, springing up and flinging the long dark cloak with which Betty had provided herself around his shoulders; "take the ladies home slowly. Kitty, my beloved, farewell--farewell, Betty, brave little soul that you are; I'll tell my father how your quick wits came to my relief. Here I cross the river on the ice, and, G.o.d willing, reach the commander-in-chief with the tidings he desires by eight o'clock in the morning."

A sob from Kitty, a low "G.o.d guard you!" from Betty, and Oliver vanished as Pompey turned his horses and proceeded leisurely back to Broadway.

The girls were literally too spent with emotion to do more than sink down breathless among the fur robes, and not one word did they exchange as they drove through Wall Street and finally drew up at the Verplancks'

door. On the steps stood Gulian, a tall and silent figure, awaiting the truants.

"What does this mean?" he began sternly, as he lifted Kitty out. "Did the hue and cry for that wretched, miserable Whig spy frighten the horses? Clarissa is nearly distracted"--

"I will explain all to your satisfaction," interrupted Betty. "Meantime, listen, and be thankful;" and as she held up a warning hand, they heard through the stillness of the night the watchman's distant cry float down the frosty air:--

"Half past three o'clock--and all's--well!"

CHAPTER XV

LOVE OR LOYALTY

"Do you mean to tell me that you, Clarissa's sister, had anything to do with the escape of a Whig spy?"

"Even so," said Betty calmly, though her face was pale and her brilliant eyes burning with excitement.

"d.a.m.nation!" retorted Gulian angrily. "Even your mistaken ideas of patriotism could hardly carry a well-behaved maiden so far."

"Gulian! how _dare_ you!"

"What am I to conclude?" with a scornful wave of his hand; "your story is somewhat disjointed. Kitty is taken ill; you suddenly decide to carry her off in my sleigh without farewell of any kind to your hostess, without paying your sister or me the respect to ask permission. Then you state that a man--confound the beggar's impudence!--sprang into the sleigh, and you were foolish enough to fetch him out of the danger of pursuit, all because of loyalty to the cause of so-called freedom. I cannot understand--Stay! Captain Yorke was on the steps as I came out, hearing the shouts; did he witness this extraordinary occurrence?"

"I told you the fugitive had concealed himself in the bottom of the sleigh before I entered it," said Betty, terror seizing her lest a chance word should implicate Geoffrey in the matter. "Would you have me turn a helpless man loose among your Hessians? I have too vivid recollection of Nathan Hale's fate to contribute another victim to English mercy."

The taunt stung Verplanck, for, like many of the more liberal Tories, he had deeply deplored the tragic ending of the gallant Hale, although forced to regard it as one of the stern necessities of war. He bit his lip as he answered:--

"Thank you, Betty; I am glad Clarissa does not regard me as quite so bloodthirsty as you evidently deem me." Then, eying her keenly, as if struck by a sudden thought, "Did you know the man, or was it all pure patriotism?"

"Yes," returned Betty, filled with indignation at the sneer, and facing him with all her native courage; "yes, I know him well."

"Know him?" echoed the bewildered Gulian, "are you mad or am I dreaming?"

"Neither, I trust. The Whig spy, as you are pleased to call him, was my brother, Oliver Wolcott. Thank G.o.d that he has made good his escape, and congratulate yourself, Gulian, that you aided, even remotely, in it."

"Betty, Betty, if this be true, I trust Clarissa does not know."

"Never fear," with a choking sob; "I shall not tell her. She suffers enough, poor soul, with her husband upon one side and her people upon the other of this most cruel war."

"Betty, go to your chamber," said Gulian sternly. "I will myself escort Kitty to her own door, and impress upon her the necessity of keeping the matter a close secret. My mortification would be great were it known.

Why, it might even endanger my friendship with Sir Henry Clinton."

Betty left the room, but her lip curled as she said to herself, "A Tory to the tips of his fingers; G.o.d forbid that I should ever feel what Clarissa must."

Very little sleep visited Betty that night (or what remained of it) as she lay with open eyes that strained into the growing dawn, picturing to herself Oliver's flight across the North River, and hoping fervently that she had thrown the pursuit skillfully off his track. When at last she fell into a doze it was nearly seven o'clock in the morning, and Miranda, who softly entered the room, bringing fresh water, halted at the pillow, loth to waken her.

"Mistress Betty," she whispered. No reply, but the sleeper turned uneasily, and then opened her eyes. "I certainly do hate to call you, but jes' look here; what you say for dat, little missy?" and Miranda held up a letter. "Dat was left wif me at daybreak by de young boy who came wif Sambo--missy knows who I mean,"--rolling her eyes fearfully around the room,--"and he said tell you that Jim Bates, of Breucklen Heights, had tole him to fetch it to you."

Betty seized the package; it consisted of a half-sheet of paper which inclosed a letter, doubled over and sealed with wax in the fashion of the day.

"I am safely across the river," wrote Oliver on the outer sheet, "and send this to ease your mind and Kitty's. Moppet's letter came to me inside one from my father by private hand a few days since, on chance of my being able to give it you. My service in the city is over, my object attained; hereafter I shall be on duty with our troops. G.o.d be with you till we meet again."

Betty broke the seal of her letter and between sobs and laughter deciphered the queer pot-hooks and printed letters with which Miss Moppet had covered the pages. Dear little Moppet; Betty could almost see the frowns and puckered brow with which the child had penned the words.

"My Betty dear," the letter ran, "we miss you sorely, especially the Mare and me. She whinnies when I seek the Stable, and I was going to say I cry too, but never mind." (This was partly erased, but Betty made it out.) "It is so cold the Chickens are kept in the kitchen at night lest they freeze. We hope it may thaw soon, as we Desire to get the maple syrup from the trees. Aunt Euphemia is well. Miss Bidwell is still knitting Socks for our poor soldiers, and I made Half of one, but the Devil tempted me with Bad temper and I threw it on the Fire, for which I was well Punished. Pamela cries much; I do not see why she is so Silly. Sally Tracy is the only merry one, now you are away; she spends too much, time, to my thinking, reading and walking with a young Gentleman who comes from Branford. I have not yet learned how to spell his Name, but you may Guess who I mean. When are you coming home, Betty?

I want so to see your dear face. My Respects to Gulian and Clarissa, and Obedience to Grandma--I do not Recollect her whole Name. My Sampler is more perfectly Evil than ever, but I have completed the Alphabet and I danced on it, which Miss Bidwell said was Outrageous naughty, but my temper Felt calmed afterward. It has taken four Days to write this, farewell, from your lonesome little sister,

"FAITH WOLCOTT.

"Nota Bene. I send my Love to You know Who."

There were others of the Verplanck household who slept late that morning. Gulian's usually calm and somewhat phlegmatic temper had been moved to its depths by the startling and most unexpected revelation of Oliver Wolcott's ident.i.ty with the spy, whose escape Betty had aided and in which he was also indirectly implicated by the use of his horses and servant. Gulian's strict sense of justice told him that Betty was right in seizing the means at hand to rescue her brother, but that did not lessen his irritation at being used for anything which appertained to the Whig cause, for Gulian Verplanck was a Tory to the backbone.

Educated in England, brought up to consider that the divine right of kings was a sacred principle, he carried his devotion to the Tories to such an extent that had he foreseen the conflict between King and Colonies it is safe to say he would never have wedded Clarissa Wolcott.

His love for his wife was too great to permit him to regret his marriage, and he was too thorough a gentleman to annoy her by alluding to their political difference of opinion, except occasionally, when his temper got the better of him, which, to do him justice, was seldom. But Clarissa's very love for him rendered her too clear-sighted not to perceive the state of his mind, and the unspoken agitation which she suffered on this score had been partly the cause of her homesickness and longing for her sister's companionship. He had been both kind and considerate in sending for Betty; his conscience approved the action; and now to have this escapade as the outcome was, to a man of his somewhat stilted and over-ceremonious ideas, a blow of the most annoying description.

When he sallied forth from his house some two hours later than his wont, on his way to the wharf, where his business was located, he congratulated himself that he had so far escaped questioning from his wife on the occurrences of the night before. When Betty left him, he had taken Kitty home in the sleigh, and refrained from lecturing her except so far as insisting upon her not mentioning the matter of Oliver's escape to her mother. Exhausted as she was, mirth-loving Kitty was moved to a smile as she listened to Gulian's labored sentences, in which he endeavored to convince his listener and himself that what he considered almost a crime against the King's majesty--permitting the escape of a rebel spy--was, so far as Betty was concerned, a meritorious act. So Kitty promised, with the utmost sincerity, that not one syllable would she breathe of the matter to her mother, or, in fact, to any human being, and hugged herself mentally as she thought of Gulian's horror if he only knew what a personal interest she had in that night's mad race for freedom. Clarissa, sweet soul, had lain down quietly, when told that their horses had nearly run away, being badly frightened by the hue and cry of an escaping rebel; and uttering heartfelt thanksgivings that Pompey had brought the girls home in safety, she went fast asleep and remained so long after Gulian had risen, breakfasted, and gone down Maiden Lane.

Business was somewhat dull that morning, and Gulian was conscious that each time his office door opened he feared some one would enter who had learned, he hardly knew how, of his having been connected with the hateful affair occupying his thoughts. It was therefore with a genuine feeling of relief that just as he was preparing to lock up his books he heard the outer door open, and a familiar voice inquire if he was within.

"Pray come in at once, Yorke," he said, throwing open the door of his private room with alacrity, as he held out a hand of welcome to his visitor. "Did you rise early this morning? I am ashamed to own how late I was, but the b.a.l.l.s at De Lancey Place are promoters of sleep next day, I find."

"I can usually plead guilty to sleep," replied Yorke, throwing off his military cloak, and taking the chair which Gulian offered him, "but I had to be stirring early to-day, for Sir Henry had pressing affairs, and I was at headquarters before seven o'clock."

"Did you take horse in pursuit of the spy last night?" asked Gulian, with somewhat heightened color.