“And so you are come to return some of our visits, my little cousin,” cried Colonel Owen, coming forward from the side of a coach as they came ashore. “’Twas well thought. ’Twill be delightsome to return some of your hospitality.”
“Oh, Cousin William,” cried she, the tears beginning to flow, “do send me back to my mother! Oh, I do want my mother!”
“Tut, tut!” he rejoined. “Homesick already? You should have considered that when you planned to come with Harriet.”
“When I what?” exclaimed Peggy, looking up through her tears.
“Planned to come with Harriet,” he repeated impatiently. “She wrote some time since that she would bring you. Come! The dinner waits. We have prepared for you every day for a week past. I am glad the waiting is over. Come, my cousin.”
And Peggy, seeing that further pleading was of no avail, entered the coach, silently determined to make no other appeal. A short drive brought them to a spacious dwelling standing in the midst of large grounds in the Richmond Hill district, which was situated on the western side of Manhattan Island, a little removed from the city proper. The building stood on an eminence commanding a view of the Hudson River and the bay, for at that time there were no houses or other buildings to obstruct the vision, and was surrounded by noble trees. A carefully cultivated lawn even then, so mild had been the winter, showing a little green stretched on one side as far as the road which ran past the house. On the other was the plot for the gardens, while in the rear of the mansion the orchard extended to the river bank. On every hand was evidence of wealth and luxury, and Peggy’s heart grew heavy indeed as she came to know that Colonel Owen’s poverty had been but another of Harriet’s fabrications.
She sat silent and miserable at the table while Harriet, who was in high spirits, related the incidents of the past few days: the finding of the note in the roadway, the warning of the governor and the brigade, and how she had been petted and praised for her heroism. Her father and Captain Greyling, who had accompanied them home, laughed uproariously at this.
“Upon my life, my cousin,” cried William Owen, “I wonder not that you are in the dumps. Fie, fie, Harriet! ’twas most unmannerly to steal such a march upon your cousin. For shame! And did our little cousin weep out her pretty eyes in pique that you were so fêted?”
But Peggy was in no mood for banter. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and an accent in her voice that showed that she was not to be trifled with as she said clearly: