Peggy Owen Patriot Part 26

In all of Peggy's life never had she felt the fear that now came upon her. At all times reserved in his manner and his bearing full of dignity, never before had she realized the majesty of General Washington's august presence. In the past when others had called him cold and austere she had denied such qualities warmly, but now as she found him regarding her with a stern expression she began to tremble violently.

"And to whom was your letter sent?" he asked after a painful pause.

"To Sir Henry Clinton, sir."

"And what would you have to say to Sir Henry Clinton?" he demanded, plainly astonished.

"I?" Peggy looked at him quickly. "Why, I did not write it, Friend Washington."

"You did not?" It seemed to Peggy that his glance would pierce her very soul, so keen was his scrutiny. "If you did not, who did?"

"Read the letter," implored she. "Read it, sir. 'Twill explain everything."

"I have read it," he made answer. "Do you wish me to do so again?"

"Yes," she said, a vague apprehension stirring her heart at his manner.

Slowly and impressively he read aloud without further comment: "A certain personage spends a portion of every clear afternoon upon the summit of Chimney Rock, which I have told you stands nigh to Bound Brook. Fording the Raritan at the spot already designated could be done without fear of the sentry, and the personage captured with but little risk. Without him the army would go to pieces, and the rebellion ended.

Further particulars contained in other letters forwarded by S."

"Oh!" gasped Peggy her eyes widening with consternation. "That is not the note I sent, Friend Washington. Does not that mean thee and thy capture?"

"Yes," he said. "There seem to be plots and counterplots for the leaders. What is behind all this? I am loth to believe that you would wilfully connive at either my capture, or anything that would bring harm to the cause."

"I would not, I would not," she told him earnestly, amazed and bewildered at the thing that had befallen her. "I would do naught that would injure the cause. And thee-- Why, sir, I would rather die than act of mine should bring thee harm."

"I believe you," he said. "Your past actions show you have the best interests of your country at heart. But you are shielding some one," he said leaning toward her suddenly. "Who is it? Were it not for the fact that your cousin discovered so much zeal in warning Governor Livingston and the garrison at Elizabethtown I should say that 'twas she. But were she guilty she would not have warned the governor, and would have tried to prevent you from doing so." He looked straight into her eyes as the girl with difficulty repressed an exclamation. "Who is it?" he asked again.

But Peggy could only stare at him unable to speak. In that moment the truth had come to her, and she saw the explanation of everything.

Harriet had deceived her and all of them, from the beginning. A blaze of anger swept her from head to foot. Was the daughter, like the father, only seeking to work them harm?

"Who is it?" repeated General Washington, watching her intently, and seeing that she was shaken by some emotion.

"It was--" she began, and paused. She had promised only that morning that she would not tell that Harriet had given her the note. Could she break her word? Had she not been taught once a word was pa.s.sed 'twas a sacred thing, and not to be lightly broken? She looked at him in anguish. "I want to tell thee," she burst forth, "but I have promised. I have promised."

"But you thought the contents of this note were different, did you not?

You did not know that it contained a hint of a plan for my capture?"

"No," she answered. "I did not know."

"Then you were tricked," he declared. "By shielding this person, or persons, you expose the entire camp to other plots which may prove more successful than these last have been. Do you still consider your word binding under the circ.u.mstances?"

"I have been taught," she said, her eyes full of trouble, "that having once pa.s.sed my word it must be kept. Friends do not take oath as others do, but affirm only. Therefore, we are taught, that once given one's word must be abided by so that it will be as stable and as much to be relied upon as an oath."

"But do you not see, Mistress Peggy, that your refusal to disclose the name of the person places you under suspicion?"

"I am a patriot," she a.s.serted, pleadingly, "loyal and true to my country. I have ever striven to do what I could."

"Yes; but by your own confession you have given a note to this man, who says that 'tis this very one. We have only your word that 'tis not so.

Then, too, you were alone when the warning note was found. It was not soiled nor trampled upon as it would have been had it lain there long.

Child, you place yourself under suspicion."

"I see," she said miserably.

"'Tis a cruel necessity of war to use spies," he went on, "but all armies show them small mercy when they are caught. And it should be so.

The man, woman, or girl even, acting as one does so at the risk of life."

Peggy started. He had used almost the same words that John Drayton had used the day they had seen the swinging body of the spy. A shudder shook her. Again she saw the swaying form dangling from the tree. Small mercy was shown a spy. Could she condemn Harriet to such a fate? Beautiful Harriet with her wonderful eyes!

"Friend Washington," she cried brokenly, "thee does not believe that I would injure thee, or my country, does thee?"

"What am I to think, Miss Peggy?" he asked, ignoring her outstretched hands.

"Give me a little time," she cried. "Only a little time. Oh, I am sore beset. I know not what to do."

"Child," he said with compa.s.sion, "I am thinking of a time when a young girl came to me through winter's snow and cold to plead for the life of her father. Do you remember what she said when I told her that I could not exchange a spy for him, valiant though the deeds of that father had been? She said, 'I know that thee must refuse me. Thee would be false to thy trust were thee to do otherwise.' Hath my little maiden whose answer so warmed my heart with its patriotism that I have never forgotten it, changed so that now she shields a spy? I cannot believe it."

"Thee presses me so hard," she cried wringing her hands. "Let me have a little time, I entreat thee. It could not matter to let me have until to-morrow. Just until to-morrow, Friend Washington."

He gazed at her thoughtfully. Her anguish was so apparent that none could help being touched. That there was much behind it all was very evident, and so presently he said:

"You shall have until to-morrow, Mistress Peggy. 'Tis against all precedent, but for what you have done before I will grant your request.

But there will be no further delay."

"Thank thee, sir," said she weeping. "I will ask none." She spoke timidly after a moment. "What am I to do, sir? Thee will not wish me to stay for dinner if I am under suspicion."

"Yes," he said. "Let all go on as before until the matter is unraveled.

Can you compose yourself sufficiently to wait upon Mrs. Washington? The dinner hour hath come."

As Peggy replied in the affirmative, he called an orderly, and gave him some directions, then escorted the maiden into the dining-room. The Quaker habit of self-control enabled the girl to bear the curious glances cast at her pale face, but the dinner was a trying ordeal. She had grown to love the gay circle that gathered at the table, and to count a day spent with the brilliant men and women as one to be remembered; to-day she was glad when the time came for her to go home.

Harriet had been very vivacious all through the afternoon, but as they set forth accompanied by the same aide who had escorted them to the mansion she relapsed into silence. It had been Peggy's intention to tell the whole story to her father and mother in Harriet's presence as soon as she reached home, but there was company in the drawing-room, and as she stood hesitating what to do her mother hastened to them.

"How tired you both look," she cried in alarm. "To bed ye go at once.

Nay, David," as Mr. Owen entreated a delay. "'Tis early, I know, but too much excitement is not to be endured. And both girls will be the better for a long sleep. So to bed! To bed!"

And with some reluctance on the part of both maidens they went slowly up to the little chamber under the eaves.

CHAPTER XXI-THE RECKONING

"He flees From his own treachery; all his pride, his hopes, Are scattered at a breath; even courage fails Now falsehood sinks from under him."

-Walter Savage Landor.