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 God 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; God 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.