Chapter XVII: A Letter and a Surprise

"Oh, never shall we know again
A heart so stout and true--
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new."

--Aytoun.

"Governor Livingston will dine with us to-day, Peggy," remarked Mrs. Owen as Peggy and Harriet came down the stairs equipped for their ride. "Be not too long away, for thy father will wish you both here."

"Is he the rebel governor of the Jerseys?" asked Harriet abruptly. "The one for whom two thousand guineas are offered--for his capture?"

"He is the patriot governor of the state, Harriet," answered Mrs. Owen mildly. "We do not call such rebels. As to the reward I know not. I had not heard of such amount being offered, although 'tis well known that he is held in particular abhorrence by both the Tories and thy people. Perhaps David can inform thee concerning the affair."

"'Tis no matter," spoke Harriet hastily. "I dare say that I have confused him with another. Peggy, hath my beaver the proper tilt to show the feather? It should sweep to the right shoulder."

"'Tis most becoming," answered Peggy, after a critical survey. "Thee looks as charming as ever, Harriet."

"Vanity, vanity," laughed her cousin. "Shall we go for the ride now?"

Ensign Drayton rode into the yard just as their horses were brought to the block for the girls to mount. To Peggy's surprise the same private soldier to whom she was to give the note had them in charge. As Harriet vaulted lightly into her saddle he left Fleetwood's head and went round to the horse's side.

"That will do, sirrah," spoke young Drayton sharply. "I will attend to the strap."

Peggy glanced at him quickly. "John grows unmannerly," she thought to herself. "Now what did the poor man do amiss? Friend," she called as the soldier saluted and turned to leave, her voice showing her indignation, "friend, thee shall fix Star's girth if it needs it."

"Thank you, miss," he said, saluting again. He tightened the strap deftly, and the girl put her hand in her purse for a small coin. As she did so her fingers touched the note that Harriet had given her, and she bent toward him suddenly.

"Thee was to take a letter, was thee not?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, a look of astonishment flashing across his face.

"It is here, friend," said she, giving him the missive. "I hope thee can get it through, for my cousin is sore beset with grief for news of her father. And there is money for thee. Thou art a good man, and hast a kind heart."

"Thank you," he said saluting, and Peggy could not have told how he concealed the note, it was done so adroitly.

"Why did thee speak so sharply to him, John?" she queried when at length they had started.

"Those girths should be attended to before bringing the horses round," he answered. "'Tis done to get money from you girls. He never sees us but that he comes forward under some pretense of doing a service. I like not his actions. How doth it come that he is attending the horses? He is not your father's man."

"I know not," answered Peggy. "Doth it really matter? Fie, fie, John! thee is cross. I never saw thee so before."

"Your pardon," said the lad contritely. "I meant not to be so, but men require sharp treatment, and perchance I have brought my parade manner with me."

The girls laughed, but a constraint seemed to be over all three. Harriet was unusually silent, and Peggy, though conscious of no wrong-doing, was ill at ease.

The feeling was intensified as, when they had gone some distance, young Drayton wheeled his horse suddenly.

"Let us go back," he said abruptly.

"Why?" exclaimed both girls simultaneously, but even as they spoke they saw the reason. A few rods in front of them, suspended from the limb of a tree, hung the limp body of a man.

"Is it a spy?" whispered Peggy shudderingly.

"Yes, Mistress Peggy. I knew not that the execution would take place on this road, else I would have chosen another for the ride. 'Tis not a pleasing sight."

"Is thee ill, Harriet?" cried Peggy, all at once happening to glance at her cousin who had no color in her face.

"Ill? No," answered Harriet with an attempt at carelessness. "I am chilled; that is all. Then, too, as the ensign says, yon sight is not a pretty one. Methinks such service must be extremely hazardous."

"It is, mistress," said Drayton sternly. "So perilous is it that the man, woman, or girl even who enters upon it does so at the risk of life. No mercy is shown a spy. Nor should there be."

"And yet," she said growing paler still, "spies are used by your own general, sir. It is a parlous mission, but he who enters upon it serves his country as truly as though"--she laughed, flung up her head and looked him straight in the face--"as though he were an ensign," she finished mockingly.

"She has thee, John," cried Peggy gaily. "But a truce to such talk. 'Tis gruesome, is it not? Let us converse upon more pleasing subjects."

"Methinks," said Drayton briefly, "'twould be as well to return, Mistress Peggy. The ride hath been spoiled for the day."

But a shadow seemed over them, and neither girl recovered her accustomed spirits until some hours later when they went into dinner.

"Now by my life, David," cried William Livingston, the great war governor of New Jersey, as the maidens were presented. "Now by my life, these girls take not after you, else they would not be such beauties. They must meet with my daughters. I had three," he said turning to Peggy. "The Livingston Graces, some called them, but one grew tired of being a nymph and so became a bird. Nay; be not alarmed," he added as a puzzled look flashed across Peggy's face, "she but married John Jay. 'Tis a joke of mine. And this is the cousin from across the sea who bids fair to become our more than sympathizer? Wilt pardon me if I say that were I British I'd never relinquished to the rebels so fair a compatriot?"

"Perchance, sir," replied Harriet, sweeping him an elaborate curtsey, and assuming the gracious manner which was one of her charms, "perchance if you were on the other side I would not wish to be relinquished."

"That is apt," he responded with a hearty laugh. "What think you, David? Are not the honors evenly divided betwixt this young lady and myself? I must be wary in my speech."

"And are you at Liberty Hall this winter?" she asked him presently.

"Yes; thanks to Maxwell's brigade, I am permitted this enjoyment. Were he not stationed at Elizabethtown, however, I could not be with my dear ones. 'Tis the first time in three years that I have had the privilege. Hath General Washington returned from Philadelphia, David?"

"He hath been back for some time," answered Mr. Owen. "Since the first of the month, in fact. 'Twas dull here without him."

"I like him better than any other one of your people whom I have met, my cousin," declared Harriet after the governor had taken his departure. "I have heard much of Liberty Hall, Cousin David. I am curious anent it. Where is it?"

"'Tis a mile northwest of Elizabethtown, Harriet," answered he. "A wonderful place it is. The governor hath sent abroad and obtained hundreds of trees to adorn the grounds. 'Tis his lament, however, that he will not live to see them grown. He is a wonderful man also. 'Tis no marvel that thee is pleased with him. His daughters are most charming, and will be agreeable acquaintances for thee and Peggy. We will go there soon."

"But tell me how to get to the Hall, please," she teased. "I want to know exactly."

"Exactly," he laughed. "Well, well, Harriet, I will do my best; though why thee should want to know exactly is beyond me."

"'Tis fancy," she said laughing also. "And thee always indulges my fancies, Cousin David. Doesn't thee now?"

"Whenever thee uses that speech, my child, I cannot resist thee," he answered. And forthwith sat down by the table and drew for her a map showing just where the road to Liberty Hall turned from the Morris turnpike.

"Drayton and I are both on duty to-day," announced Mr. Owen the next morning. "If you ride, lassies, it must be without escort, unless I can find some one to go with you."

"Oh, do let us go alone, Cousin David," pleaded Harriet. "Peggy and I have gone so a few times. There is nothing to harm us."

"I see not how harm could befall you so long as you stay within the lines," said Mr. Owen indulgently. "But it shall be as Lowry says."

"And what say you, madam my cousin?" The girl turned toward the lady with pretty deference.

"Could not the ride go over for one day?" asked she. "I like not for you to ride alone."

"'Twill be good for Peggy," spoke Harriet with an air of concern. "She is not well to-day."

"Is thee not, my daughter?" asked Mrs. Owen. "Thee is pale."

"'Tis nothing to wherrit over, mother," spoke Peggy cheerfully. "I did not sleep well, that is all. Almost do I believe with Doctor Franklin that the windows should be raised in a sleeping-room, though none but he advocates such a thing."

"Doctor Franklin advocates naught but what he hath proved by experience to be good," declared Mr. Owen, rising. "He is a philosopher who profits by his own teaching. I think 'twould be best for the girls to go, wife."

"Then, by all means, go," decided Mrs. Owen. "But start earlier than usual, so as to be back long before the retreat sounds; else I shall be uneasy."

"We will do that, mother," promised Peggy. And as soon as the morning tasks were finished the maidens set forth.

"Are you not glad that we are alone to-day?" asked Harriet, when they had ridden a while. "I tire of even Cousin David. Do you not?"

"Why, no!" exclaimed Peggy in surprise. "I would rather have father with us. I do not see how any one could tire of him."

Harriet made no reply to this speech, and the two rode for some distance in silence. The February day was chill and gray, the roads slushy, but the outdoor life they had led rendered the maidens hardy, and they did not mind the dampness.

"Why!" ejaculated Harriet suddenly. "Aren't we on the Elizabethtown turnpike?"

"Yes," said Peggy glancing about. "I knew not that we had come so far. We must turn back, Harriet. Mother said that she would be uneasy if we were not there before the sounding of the retreat, and the afternoons are so short. 'Twill be time for it before we know it."

"I'll tell you what, Peggy," cried her cousin. "Let's go by Liberty Hall."

"It is too late," answered Peggy. "Thee must know that it is all of twenty miles to Elizabethtown, and though we have ridden a goodly part of the distance 'twould be more than we could do to-day. There and back, Harriet, is not to be thought of."

"Well, I am going, anyway," exclaimed Harriet with more petulance than Peggy had ever seen her exhibit. "So there!"

She struck Fleetwood a sharp blow with her riding crop as she spoke, and set off at speed down the road. Too much surprised to do more than call after her, Peggy drew rein, undecided what course to pursue. As she did so her eye was caught by a folded paper lying in the roadway. Now this had fallen from Harriet's person as her horse started off unnoticed by either girl.

"That's a letter!" exclaimed Peggy as she saw it. "Some one must have dropped it. Could it have been Harriet? I'll get it and tease her anent the matter."

Smiling roguishly she dismounted and picked up the missive. Somewhat to her amazement there was no address, and opening the epistle she found neither address nor signature.

"How monstrously queer!" she cried, turning it about. "Why, why," as her glance rested almost unconsciously upon the writing, "what does it mean?" For with deepening amazement this is what she read:

"Your information opportune. An attempt will be made on the night of the twenty-fourth to surprise brigade at Elizabethtown, and to take the old rebel at L---- H----. Reward will be yours if successful. Can you be near at hand so as to be taken yourself?"

"The brigade at Elizabethtown is General Maxwell's," mused Peggy thoughtfully. "Then the old rebel must be Governor Livingston of Liberty Hall. The twenty-fourth? Why, 'tis to-day!" she cried in consternation. "Oh! what must I do? 'Tis past four of the clock now."

She looked about dazedly as though seeking guidance. But with Peggy a need of decision usually brought quick result, and it was so in this instance. It was but a moment before her resolve was taken.

"I must just ride there and tell him, and then warn the garrison," she said aloud. "'Tis the only thing to do."

Mounting Star, she shook the reins and started. Before she had gone a dozen rods, however, here came Harriet riding back full tilt.

"Where are you going?" she called. "That is not the way to Bound Brook."

"I know, Harriet," replied Peggy without stopping. "I am going to Liberty Hall. An attempt will be made to-night to capture the governor. He must be warned."

"How know you that such attempt will be made?" asked her cousin, riding up beside her. "Are you daft, Peggy?"

"Nay; I found a letter in the road saying so," explained Peggy. "Will thee come too, Harriet? And there is no time for chat. We must hasten. Perhaps though thee would better ride back to tell mother."

"'Tis indelicate for females to meddle in such matters," cried Harriet excitedly. "Think how froward your father will think you, Peggy. Wait! we will go back to camp, and send relief from there, as doth become maidens."

"It could not reach the garrison in time, as thee knows," returned Peggy, keeping steadily on her way. "Do not talk, Harriet. We must ride fast." The letter was still in her hand.

"Let me see the letter," said Harriet. "Where did you get it? It could not have been long in the road, for 'tis not muddy. Who could have dropped it?"

"Harriet, thee is detaining me with thy clatter," spoke Peggy with some sharpness. "Thee has seen the letter, and know now the need for action. Either come with me or ride back to camp. We must act."

"You shall not go," exclaimed Harriet reaching over, and catching hold of Star's bridle. "'Tis some joke, and beside, your mother will be waiting for us. Come back!"

Peggy drew rein and faced her cousin with sudden suspicion. "Harriet," she said, "is that letter thine?"

"Mine?" Harriet laughed shrilly. "How could it be mine? I was not anywhere near when you found it. Besides, I never saw the governor until yesterday. How could I be concerned in his capture then?"

"True," said Peggy with brightening face. "Thy pardon, my cousin. Thy actions were so queer that for a moment I could but wonder."

"And now we are going right back to the camp," cried Harriet gaily. "That will show that you are sorry for such thoughts. Why, Peggy, you are getting as bad as John Drayton."

"Nay," said Peggy drawing her rein from her cousin's clasp. "I am sorry that I wronged thee, Harriet, but neither thee nor any one shall detain me from going to Governor Livingston and the garrison. Do as thou wilt in the matter. I am going."

For the second time in her life she struck her pony sharply. The little mare reared, and then settling, dashed off in a gallop. She did not look to see whether her cousin was following her or not. On she rode. The February slush spattered from Star's flying hoofs, and covered her from head to foot, but she did not notice. The daily rides had familiarized her with the road to Elizabethtown, and the minute description given by her father to Harriet the night before now enabled her to head unerringly for the governor's mansion. The short winter day was drawing to a close when all at once she became aware that there was the sound of hoofs behind her.

The sound increased. Presently she felt the hot breath of a horse upon her face, and just as she turned from the Morris turnpike into Livingston Lane, at the end of which stood the governor's country seat, Fleetwood, running as a deer runs in leaps and bounds, dashed past her, with Harriet urging him to greater endeavor.

Before Peggy was half-way down the lane Harriet had reached the great house, sprung from her saddle and was pounding vigorously upon its portals.

"Fly, fly," she cried, as the governor himself came to the door. "The British are coming to take you. Peggy will tell you all. I must warn the garrison."

She was on Fleetwood's back again by the time she had finished speaking, and was off before either the astonished governor or the dumbfounded Peggy could utter a word.