“THEE MAY TELL HIM AT THE LAST”
“A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate;
I’ve seen the last look of her heavenly eyes,—
I’ve heard the last sound of her blessed voice,—
I’ve seen her fair form from my sight depart!
My doom is closed.”
—Count Basil.
Clifford started as Sally uttered the word, “trickery,” and a deep flush dyed his face. He threw out his hands in a protesting gesture, and opened his lips to speak, but she was gone before he could say a word. He turned toward Peggy appealingly.
“Will you listen, my cousin?” he queried. “Or are you also shocked?”
“Nay, Clifford; I believe that thee intended naught but to have a little sport,” she replied.
“That’s just it,” he cried eagerly. “Everything hath been so depressing the last few days that a little diversion was welcome. When Major Gordon came in, saying that you wished to see me, and that a friend was with you who feared to come in unless I was bound, I knew at once it was Miss Sally. When the major suggested that ’twould never do for the young lady to find me unbound, the idea appealed to me immediately. It promised some brightness, a little fun which is all my excuse, Peggy. I intended naught else. I thought you both would regard it as a great joke. I see now that I should not have done it. It was caddish.”
“I think Sally felt the worst anent thy saying that the cords hurt pretty bad,” Peggy told him. “It seemed like an untruth to her.”
“’Fore George, Peggy!” cried the youth earnestly, “if she could but know the trouble I had in keeping still so that those ropes would not fall off she would think it was pretty bad.”
He laughed at the remembrance, and then became grave.
“I seem to be unfortunate in more respects than one,” he said with a sigh. “First, I misjudge you, Peggy. I can only explain that fact by saying that never before had I met any one of like truthfulness and so straightforward. Then, not knowing that your friends had the same attributes, I am guilty of injustice toward Sally. Now she misconstrues what was meant for a jest into a contemptible trick. Oh, it was! I see it now. I’ faith! the sooner that execution comes off the better,” he ended bitterly.
“Don’t speak like that, Clifford,” chided Peggy gently. “I’m going to Sally and explain the matter to her. ’Twas all a miserable misapprehension. She will laugh most heartily when she understands it.”
“I don’t believe she will, Peggy,” he answered gloomily. “She feels tricked. She will never forgive me. You Quakers are queer people. I did not dream that words spoken in jest would be taken so seriously.”
“Well, my cousin, we have been taught that for every idle word we shall give account. Perchance we do not speak with so much lightness as the world’s people.”
“’Fore George, you do not,” he ejaculated. “But, Peggy, to a soldier the thought of death becomes familiar. So familiar in fact that even when we are under its dark shadow if there comes a chance for amusement of any sort we seize it. I would not for the world offend her, Peggy. Will you try to make peace for me? Tell her,” he smiled involuntarily, “that she is the unreasonable one now; that if she will not listen she lays herself open to the charge of being English which would be a most dreadful downfall from the high estate of being an American.”
“I’ll tell her everything, my cousin. I am sure that all will be well as soon as she understands. And Harriet will come to thee this afternoon. Thee must not let this, or aught else make thee down-hearted, Clifford. I am hoping that something will come up to avert this terrible fate from falling upon thee.”
But the youth shook his head.
“I have no hope,” he said. “’Tis only to please my sister that I have consented that she should try to get your general to postpone the execution until she can see Sir Guy. It seems but a useless prolongation of anxiety. Now as to this other matter: you will go at once to Sally, will you not, my cousin? Tell her that I am sorry that I lent myself to such deception, and that I wish she would not think hardly of me. I shall never see her again, Peggy, but I like not to think that she thinks ill of me.”
“I’ll tell her all, my cousin,” promised Peggy as she took her leave. “Oh, dear!” she sighed as she wended her way toward Little Dock Street, where Sally lived. “Oh, dear! will naught ever go right again? Now just as Clifford gets so that he will listen to Sally this had to happen! But Sally ought not to hold it against him. She must not.”
Sally was up-stairs, her mother told Peggy, and slowly she went up to her friend’s room. A crumpled heap on the bed told where Sally was, but it did not turn as Peggy entered. She went over and put her hand on the head that was buried between two pillows.
“Thee is taking this too seriously, Sally,” spoke Peggy. “Don’t be too hard on him. After all thee knows that Clifford is just a boy.”
Sally turned a reddened, tear-stained face toward her.
“He is to die,” she murmured in shocked tones, “yet he jested. He jested, Peggy.”
“Sally, ’tis naught to make such a pother about. Men, especially soldiers, regard death differently from the way we look at it. Let me tell thee about the matter.”
“I don’t care to hear any explanation,” answered Sally shortly.
“Sally, Sally, is thee going to be unreasonable and obstinate now? ’Tis as Clifford said: ‘Thee should say naught against the English for perverseness. Thee isn’t much better.’”
“Did Clifford Owen say that?” demanded Sally, sitting up with flaming cheeks.
“Nay; but something like it. How can I tell thee what he said if thee will not listen? Or has thee made up thy mind not to listen to Clifford’s explanation in revenge for the time that he was in listening to thine?” concluded Peggy artfully.
“Peggy! thee knows better than that. Of course, if there is an explanation I will hear it. It did not occur to me that there could be one.”
“Now that is my own Sally,” cried Peggy kissing her. She sat down on the side of the bed, and began earnestly: “Sally, we must not forget that my cousin belongs to the world’s people. Many things which to us are of gravity are not so to them, and our belief is as naught if it doth not make us regard their feelings with charity. Clifford feels sorrow now for the joke, and grieves because thee is inclined to think hardly of him.” Forthwith she told Sally how the jest had come about, ending with:
“So thee sees, Sally, that thou art somewhat in fault thyself, insomuch as thee said that thee would not venture in unless he were bound.”
“I see,” remarked Sally thoughtfully. “I see, Peggy. Well, ’tis all right, of course; but oh, Peggy! If—if he had not made me feel so sorry for him. If I had not cried because I thought those ropes hurt him I would not mind so much; though it was in truth ill to jest when he is to die.”
“But I cried too,” soothed Peggy. “Any one would who had the least bit of sensibility.”
“Does thee really think so, Peggy?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Peggy. “’Twas all in fun, and done on the impulse of the moment. But he says now that he sees ’twas wrong, and that he is sorry. Thee must forgive him, Sally.”
“Of course if he is sorry it makes a difference,” said Sally. “Somehow, Peggy, I am disappointed in him. Harriet always spoke so highly of him, and I liked him so much when he was with us, that it pains me to find him lacking in any respect. Well, if he is sorry, ’tis all right.”
“And I may tell him so?” asked Peggy eagerly. “I don’t want the poor fellow to have aught to wherrit him. He hath enough as it is.”
“Yes; thee may tell him, Peggy.” Sally slipped from the bed as she spoke and buried her face in the washing bowl. “After all, as thee said, ’tis naught to make such a pother about.”
“Will thee come home with me to see Harriet, Sally?”
“Not to-day, Peggy.” Sally began to brush her hair vigorously. “I will come in the morning. I want to think things over. Thee doesn’t mind?”
“No,” Peggy answered more troubled than she cared to admit over Sally. “Well, I shall see thee to-morrow then.”
Harriet and her father were awaiting her when she returned home. Harriet looked weary and a little pale.
“We could not see the Congress, Peggy,” said she in answer to Peggy’s eager queries. “Cousin David could not obtain an audience for me; but the Minister of War, in whose charge Clifford now is, consented that we should accompany him to the New Jersey cantonment. He said that ’twas General Washington’s desire that Clifford should be given every indulgence suitable to his rank and condition that would be consistent with the security of his person. He said too that the execution would take place pursuant to the general’s orders, and therefore ’twas proper that all pleas should be made to him. We start with the dragoons and officers who guard my brother to-morrow.”
It was early the next morning when the start for New Jersey was made. Early as it was, however, Sally was down to see them off. She hovered around Peggy, finally saying, with a fine air of carelessness:
“I had a short letter from thy Cousin Clifford, Peggy. If he should speak of the matter, I dare say he will not, thee may say that ’tis all right. That I have no hard feelings toward him.”
Peggy caught her suddenly, and held her fast.
“Is that all I am to say, Sally? Is there naught else? Couldn’t thee give me one little kind word for him? He is to die, Sally.”
Sally struggled to free herself, then unexpectedly hid her face on Peggy’s shoulder, and burst into tears.
“Tell him,” she sobbed, then looked up at Peggy wrathfully: “If thee tells him anything until the very last, Peggy Owen, I will never forgive thee. Never!”
“I understand, Sally,” encouraged Peggy. “Tell me.”
“Thee may tell him, at the very last, at the very last, Peggy.”
“Yes, Sally.”
“Thee may tell him that I think him the finest gentleman I ever knew. There! Of course, being thy kinsman, and because we are such friends, for thy sake, thee knows——”
“Yes, I know.” Peggy kissed Sally gently, then held her close. “I have not told Harriet a word,” she whispered. “Oh, Sally! Sally!”
They joined Clifford and his guards on the Bristol road. Peggy could not but reflect with what joyousness she and Sally had passed over this very road a few short months before. How much had happened since that time! Fairfax foully murdered, Clifford, her cousin, on his way to pay the penalty of the deed. Truly strange things were wrought in the warp and woof of time. So musing, for little conversation was held, the long hours of the day glided into the shadows of evening, and found them at Trenton where they were to bide for the night. Peggy suggested seeing Governor Livingston, but Harriet demurred at once.
“He would do naught for us, Peggy,” she declared. “Have you forgot that ’twas I who tried to effect his captivation at Middlebrook? ’Tis that very thing that makes me fearful of meeting General Washington. Were not my brother’s life at stake I would not chance it.”
The roads were in good condition, the business in hand most urgent, and so they journeyed from early morning until nightfall of each day with but short stops to refresh man and beast. Through Princeton, and along the banks of the Millstone to Kingston they rode. Here the road left the valley and began to ascend the heights, then along the banks of the Raritan River until Somerset Court House was reached. Peggy turned to Harriet.
“Does thee know where we are, my cousin?” she asked smiling.
“We are coming into Middlebrook,” answered Harriet gazing about her. “Does it cause you painful thoughts, Peggy? ’Twas here that first you knew me. ’Twas here that I played the spy. Ah! the huts where the soldiers dwelt are still standing. ’Tis most familiar, Peggy.”
“Nay, I am not pained at the recollection, Harriet. Thou art changed in many ways since then. I do not believe that thee would play the spy now.”
“You know not, Peggy. I do not know myself. If aught would result of benefit to England’s cause, I might. I have done other things. I do not know.”
“Are you two talking about those huts yonder?” questioned Clifford, who had been riding with Mr. Owen. “Cousin David says the American army camped here in the winter of ’79.”
“We know it, my cousin,” answered Peggy. “This is where we first met. Harriet and I passed that winter here.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “There are many things concerning that winter I would know.”
So with each girl supplementing the other the story of Middlebrook was told. Harriet did not spare herself in the recital. With amazing frankness she related how she had tried to capture both General Washington and Governor Livingston. Her brother listened in wide-eyed astonishment.
“And father let you engage in such emprises?” he queried with pained surprise.
Harriet smiled.
“I liked the danger, Cliff,” she said. “’Tis risk that gives the zest to all undertakings. Life is like food: insipid without some spice. Beside, here was Peggy to rescue me from paying the penalty of my acts. Poor Peggy! she thought she had fallen upon evil days when I carried her off to New York.”
“Poor Peggy indeed!” he agreed briefly; then relapsed into thought.
The road beyond Middlebrook was new to both maidens, and had they not been saddened by the knowledge that each mile traversed brought them nearer to the place where Clifford must be left they would have been delighted with the romantic scenery. Soon the heights of Morristown came into view. A few miles to the eastward of Morristown lay the little town of Chatham. Between the heights and the village lay the cantonment of the Jersey line, Clifford’s destination.
Chatham was a pleasant little place. There were many hills in the vicinity, and a fine view of the valley of the Passaic River, which stream ran through the village. But none of the party noticed hills or river as they went through the town toward the encampment. Harriet grew pale at sight of the tents.
“You must be brave, my sister,” pleaded Clifford, observing her pallor. “I must meet the colonel, you know. Help me to do so with composure. Besides, you will come back here after you have seen Sir Guy.”
“True,” she answered. “I am not going to break down, Clifford. There is much to be done.”
They were received with extreme kindness by Colonel Elias Dayton, who had command of the Jersey line. No orders concerning Clifford had as yet been received from General Washington, he told them, save only that he must be closely guarded.
“And naught will happen to him until you have had time to see General Washington,” he reassured Harriet, moved by her grief at parting from her brother. “’Tis a most distressing affair, and there is no one in the American lines who does not desire that General Carleton will give us the real culprit.”
And with lightened hearts Mr. Owen and the two girls proceeded to Morristown, where they were to pass the night.