“Williams, this gentleman will remain in the house till his wound is healed. His presence is to be a secret in the household. He will occupy the southwestern chamber.” She then turned and spoke, in a constrained manner, to Peyton, not meeting his look. “It is the room your General Washington had when he was my father’s guest.”
With an effort, she raised her eyes to his, but shyly dropped them again. He bowed his thanks gravely, rather shamefaced at the success of his deception. A moment later, Elizabeth, with averted glance, walked quickly from the room.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE SECRET PASSAGE.
The steward immediately set about preparing the designated chamber for occupancy, so that Peyton, on being carried up to it a few minutes later, found it warm and lighted. It was a large, square, panelled apartment, in which the fireplace of 1682 remained unchanged, a wide, deep, square opening, faced with Dutch tile, of which there were countless pieces, each piece having a picture of some Scriptural incident. Into this fireplace, where a log was burning crisply, Peyton gazed languidly as he lay on the bed, his clothes having been removed by black Sam, who had been assigned to attend him, and who now lay in the wide hall without. Williams had taken another look at the wound, and expressed a favorable opinion of its condition. A lighted candle was placed within Peyton’s reach, on a table by the bedside. Williams had brought him, at Elizabeth’s orders, part of what remained from the general supper. The captain felt decidedly comfortable.
He supposed that Colden, after abandoning the false chase, would make another call at the house, 157 but he inferred from Elizabeth’s previous conduct that she could and would send the Tory major and the rangers back to King’s Bridge without opportunity of discovering her guest. And, indeed, Elizabeth had so provided. On returning to the dining-room from her fateful interview with Peyton, she had answered the astonished and inquisitive looks of Miss Sally and Mr. Valentine, by saying, in an abrupt and reserved manner, “For important reasons I have chosen not to give the prisoner up. He will stay in the house for a time, and nobody is to know he is here. Please remember, Mr. Valentine.” The old man tried to recall Peyton’s words in asking him to send Elizabeth to the parlor, and made a mental effort to put this and that together; failing in which, he decided to repeat nothing of Peyton’s conversation, lest it might in some way appear that he had “lent aid.” He now lighted his lantern, and sallied forth on his long walk homeward over the windswept roads. Elizabeth, who, much to the dismay of her aunt’s curiosity, had not broken silence save to give orders to the servants, now charged Williams to stay up till Colden should return, and to inform him that all were abed, that there was no news of the escaped prisoner, and that she desired the major to hasten to New York and relieve her family’s anxiety. This command the steward executed about midnight, with the result that the 158 major, utterly tired out and sadly disappointed, rode away from the manor-house a third time that night, more disgruntled than on either of the two previous occasions. By this time the house was dark and silent, Elizabeth and her aunt having long retired, the latter with a remark concerning the effect of late hours on the complexion, a hope that Mr. Valentine would not fall into a puddle on the way home, and a curiosity as to how the rebel captain fared.
The rebel captain, afar in his spacious chamber, was mentally in a state of felicity. As he ceased to remember the conquered, abashed look Elizabeth’s face had last worn, he ceased to feel ashamed of having deceived her. Her earlier manner recurred to his mind, and he jubilated inwardly over having got the better of this arrogant and vengeful young creature. Even had she been otherwise, and had his life depended on tricking her with a pretence of love, he would have valued his life far above her feelings, and would not have hesitated to practise on her a falsehood that many a gentleman has practised on many a maid for no higher purpose than for the sport or for the testing of his powers, and often for no other purpose than the maid’s undoing in more than her feelings. How much less, then, need he consider her feelings when he regarded her as an enemy in war, of whom it was his right to take all possible advantage for 159 the saving of his own or any other American soldier’s life! These thoughts came only at those moments when it occurred to him that his act might need justification. But if he thought he was entitled to avail himself of these excuses, he deceived himself, for no such considerations had been in his mind before or during his act. He had proceeded on the impulse of self-preservation alone, with no further thought as to the effect on her feelings than the hope that her feelings would be moved in his behalf. He had been totally selfish in the matter, and yet, while it is true he had not stopped to reason whether the act was morally justifiable or not, he had felt that her attitude warranted his deception, or, rather, he had not felt that the deception was a discreditable act, as he might have felt had her attitude been kindlier. Even had he possessed any previous scruples about that act, he would have overcome them. As it was, the scruples came only when he thought of that new, chastened, subdued look on her face. Only then did he feel that his trick might be debatable, as to whether it became a gentleman. Only then did he take the trouble to seek justifiable circumstances. Only then did he have a dim sense of what might be the feelings of a girl suddenly stormed into love. He had never been sufficiently in love to know how serious a feeling—serious 160 in its tremendous potency for joy or pain—love is. In Virginia, in London, and in Ireland, he had indulged himself in such little flirtations, such amours of an hour, as helped make up a young gentleman’s amusements. But he had long been, as he was now, heart-free, and, though it occurred to him that, in this girl, so great a change of mien must arise from a pronounced change of heart, he had no thought that her new mood could have deep root or long life. So, less from what thoughts he did have on the subject than from his absence of thought thereon, he lapsed into peace of mind, and went to sleep, rejoicing in his security and trusting it would last. Her face did not appear in his dreams. He had not retained a strong or accurate impression of that face. His mind had been too full of other things, even while enacting his impromptu love-scene, to make note of her beauty. He had been sensible, of course, that she was beautiful, but there had not been time or circumstance for flirtation. He had not for an instant viewed her as a possible object of conquest for its own sake. She had been to him only an enemy, in the shape of a beautiful young girl, and of whom it had become necessary to make use. And so his dreams that night were made up of wild cavalry charges, rides through the wind, and painful crushings and tearings of his leg.