“It may be,” observed Harriet carelessly, “though I see not how it can.”
Peggy made no answer. She had spoken more hopefully than she felt. In common with other patriots she was appalled at the dark outlook with which 1781, the sixth year of the war, had opened. It was in truth a very dark hour. The American Revolution was in sore straits. It was dragging and grounding on the shoals of broken finances and a helpless government. The country had not yet recovered from the depression caused by Arnold’s treason. True, the plot had failed, but there was nothing inspiriting in a baffled treason, and there had been no fighting and no victories to help the people and the army to bear the season of waiting which lay before them. General Washington lay helpless with his army along the Hudson River, unable to strike a blow for the lack of men and supplies. The Revolution seemed to be going down in mere inaction through the utter helplessness of what passed for a central government.
As all this passed through Peggy’s mind she leaned back in her chair, and gazed sadly into the fire, a hopeless feeling creeping into her heart in spite of herself.
“If after all we should fail,” she half whispered and then sat up quickly as though she had been guilty of disloyalty. “This will never do, Peggy,” she murmured chidingly. “Fail, with General Washington at the head of things? What an idea! Harriet,” turning to her cousin, “haven’t we forgotten the poem?”
“Yes,” answered Harriet who was gazing dreamily into the fire. “Don’t let’s read, Peggy.”
“But——” began Peggy when there came the excited tones of Mrs. Owen from the hall greeting a guest:
“And is it really thou, John? What brings thee? Peggy will be so glad to see thee. Come in, and welcome.”
“John! John Drayton!” cried Peggy springing to her feet as the door opened to admit the tall form of a youth. “What brings thee from the South? Hast thou news? Oh, come in! I am so glad to see thee. Is thee an express?”
“Yes, Peggy.” The youth’s clothing was bespattered with dried mud as though he had ridden hard and fast without time for attention to appearances. A handsome roquelaure[[1]] was so covered that its color was scarce distinguishable. There were deep circles under his eyes as though he were wearied yet his manner was full of subdued joyousness. “Yes, I am an express. I have just brought Congress despatches which tell that on the 17th of January, under General Morgan we met Colonel Tarleton at the Cowpens in South Carolina, and utterly routed him.”
“Did what?” gasped Peggy, while Harriet Owen sat suddenly bolt upright.