Chapter XV: Hadley Is Cast Off by Uncle Ephraim

The army of occupation brought in its train plenty of Tories and hangers-on besides the men named, though none who had been quite so prominent in affairs or were so greatly detested. It now behooved the good folk of pronounced Whig tendencies to walk circumspectly, for enemies lay in wait at every corner to hale them before the British commander and accuse them of traitorous conduct. Hadley Morris, therefore, although he did not expect to be recognized by anybody in the town, resolved to get away as soon as his wound would allow.

He could not resist, however, going out at sunset to observe the evening parade of the conquerors. There was something very fascinating for him in the long lines of brilliant uniforms and the glittering accoutrements. The British looked as though they had been simply marching through the country on a continual dress parade. How much different was the condition of even the uniformed Continentals!

To the strains of martial music the sun sank to rest, and as the streets grew dark the boisterous mirth of the soldiery disturbed those of the inhabitants who, fearful still of some untoward act upon the part of the invaders, had retired behind the barred doors of their homes. In High Street and on the commons camp fires were burning, and Hadley wandered among them, watching the soldiers cooking their evening meal. Most of the houses he passed were shut; but here and there was one wide open and brilliantly lighted. These were the domiciles where the officers were quartered, or else, being the abode of “faithful” Tories, the proprietors were celebrating the coming of the king’s troops. Laughter and music came from these, and the Old Coffee House and the Indian Queen were riotous with parties of congratulation upon the occupation by the redcoats.

As Hadley hobbled back to Master Pye’s past the tavern, he suddenly observed a familiar face in the crowd. A number of country bumpkins were mixing with the soldiery before the entrance to the Indian Queen, and Hadley was positive he saw Lon Alwood. Whether the Tory youth had observed him or not, Hadley did not know; but the fact of Lon’s presence in the city caused him no little anxiety and he hurried on to the Quaker’s abode. He wondered what had brought Lon up to Philadelphia--and just at this time of all others?

“The best thing I can do is to get out of town as quick as circumstances will permit,” thought Hadley, and upon reaching Friend Pye’s he told the old Quaker how he had seen somebody who knew him in the city--a person who would leave no stone unturned to injure him if possible.

“We must send thee away, then, Hadley,” declared the Quaker. “Where wilt thou go with thy wounded leg?”

“I’ll go home. There isn’t anything for a wounded man to do about here, I reckon. But the leg won’t hobble me for long.”

“Nay, I hope not. I will see what can be done for thee in the morning.”

Friend Jothan Pye was considered, even by his Tory neighbors, to be too close a man and too sharp a trader to have any real interest in the patriot cause. He had even borne patiently from the Whigs much calumny that he might, by so doing, be the better able to help the colonies. Now that the British occupied the town, he might work secretly for the betterment of the Americans and none be the wiser. He had already gone to the British officers and obtained a contract for the cartage of grain into the city for the army, and in two days it was arranged that Hadley should go out of town in one of Friend Pye’s empty wagons, and he did so safely, hidden under a great heap of empty grain sacks. In this way he traveled beyond Germantown and outside the British lines altogether.

Then he found another teamster going across the river, and with him he journeyed until he was at the Mills, only six miles from the Three Oaks Inn. Those last six miles he managed to hobble with only the assistance of his crutch, arriving at the hostelry just at evening. Jonas Benson had returned from Trenton and the boy was warmly welcomed by him. Indeed, that night in the public room, Hadley was the most important person present. The neighbors flocked in to hear him tell of the Paoli attack and of the occupation of Philadelphia, and he felt like a veteran.

But he could not help seeing that Mistress Benson was much put out with him. As time passed the innkeeper’s wife grew more and more bitter against the colonists. She had been born in England, and the presence of Colonel Knowles and his daughter at the inn seemed to have fired her smoldering belief in the “divine right,” and had particularly stirred her bile against the Americans.

“I’m sleepin’ in the garret, myself, Had,” groaned Jonas, in an aside to the boy. “I can’t stand her tongue when she gets abed o’ nights. I’m hopin’ this war’ll end before long, for it’s a severin’ man and wife--an’ sp’ilin’ business, into the bargain. She’s complainin’ about me keepin’ your place for ye, Had, so I’ve got Anson Driggs for stable boy. And, of course, she won’t let me pay Miser Morris your wage no more. I didn’t know but she’d come down from her high hosses when them Knowlses went away, but she’s worse ’n ever!”

“Have the Colonel and Mistress Lillian gone?”

“They have, indeed--bad luck to them!--though I’ve no fault to find with the girl: she was prettily spoken enough. But the Colonel had been recalled to his command, I understand. His business with your uncle came to naught, I reckon. D’ye know what it was, Had?”

Hadley shook his head gloomily. “No. Uncle would tell me nothing. But the Colonel seemed very bitter against him.”

“And what d’ye think of doing?”

“I’m not fit for anything until this wound heals completely. I can’t walk much for some time yet. But I’ll go over and see Uncle in the morning.”

“Ride Molly over. There’s no need o’ your walking about here. And come back here to sleep. Likely Miser Morris will be none too glad to see ye. Your bed’s in the loft same’s us’al. Anson goes home at night. The place is dead, anyway. If this war doesn’t end soon I might as well burn the old house down--there’s no money to be got by keeping it open.”

On the morrow Hadley climbed upon Black Molly and rode over to the Morris homestead. Most of the farmers in the neighborhood had harvested their grain by this time. The corn was shocked and the pumpkins gleamed in golden contrast to the brown earth and stubble. In some fields he saw women and children at work, the men being away with the army. The sight was an encouraging one. Despite the misfortunes and reverses of General Washington’s army, this showed that the common people were still faithful to the cause of liberty.

News, too, of an encouraging nature had come from the north. The battle of Bennington and the first battle of Stillwater had been fought. The army of Burgoyne, which was supposed to be unconquerable, had been halted and, even with the aid of Indians and Tories, the British commander could not have got past General Gates. News traveled slowly in those days, but a pretty correct account had dribbled through the country sections; and there was still some hope of Washington striking a decisive blow himself before winter set in.

The signs of plenty in the fields as he rode on encouraged Hadley Morris, who had seen, of late, so many things to discourage his hope in the ultimate success of the American arms. When he reached his uncle’s grain fields he found that they, too, had been reaped, and so clean that there was not a beggar’s gleaning left among the stubble. He rode on to the house, thinking how much good the store of grain Ephraim Morris had gathered might do the patriot troops, were Uncle Ephraim only of his way of thinking.

As he approached the house the watch dog began barking violently, and not until he had laboriously dismounted before the stable door did the brute recognize him. Then it ran up to the boy whining and licked his hand; but as Uncle Ephraim appeared the dog backed off and began to bark again as though it were not, after all, quite sure whether to greet the boy as a friend or an enemy. Evidently the old farmer had been in like quandary, for he bore a long squirrel rifle in the hollow of his arm, and his brows met in a black scowl when his gaze rested on his nephew’s face.

“Well, what want ye here?” he demanded.

“Why, Uncle, I have come to see you--”

“I’m no uncle of yours--ye runaway rebel!” exclaimed the old man, harshly. “What’s this I hear from Jonas Benson? He says ye are not at his inn and that he’ll no longer pay me the wages he promised. If that doesn’t make you out a runaway ’prentice, then what does it mean?”

“Why, you know, Mistress Benson is very violent for the king just now--”

“Ha!” exclaimed the farmer. “I didn’t know she had the sense to be. It’s too bad she doesn’t get a little of it into Jonas.”

“Well, she doesn’t want me around. And Jonas can’t pay two of us.”

“She wouldn’t have turned ye off if ye’d stayed where ye belonged, Hadley Morris. Oh, I know ye--and I know what ye’ve been doing of late,” cried the farmer. “Ha! lame air ye? What’s that from?”

“I got a ball in my leg--”

“I warrant. Crippling yourself, too. Been fighting with the ‘ragamuffin reg’lars,’ hey? An’ sarve ye right--sarve ye right, I say!” The old man scowled still more fiercely. “And now that you’ve got licked, ye come back home like a cur with its tail ’twixt its legs, arskin’ ter be taken in--hey? I know your breed.”

“If you don’t want me here I can go away again,” Hadley said, quietly.

“What would I want ye for? You’re a lazy, good-for-nothing--that’s what ye air! There’s naught for ye to do about the farm this time o’ year--an’ crippled, too. Ye’d never come back to me if that ball hadn’t hit ye. Ye’d stayed on with that Mr. Washington ye’re so fond of talking about. Ha! I’m done with ye! Ye’ve been naught but an expense and a trouble since your mother brought ye here--and she was an expense, too. I’m a poor man; I can’t have folks hangin’ ter the tail o’ my coat. Your mother--”

“Suppose we let that drop, sir,” interrupted Hadley, firmly, and his eyes flashed. “Everybody in this neighborhood knows what my mother was. They know that she worked herself into her grave in this house. And if she hadn’t begged me to stay here as long as I could be of any use to you, I’d never stood your ill treatment as long as I did. And now,” cried the youth, growing angrier as he thought of the slurring tone his uncle had used in speaking of the dead woman, “it lies with you whether you break with your last relative on earth or not. I will stand abuse myself, and hard work; but you shan’t speak one word against mother!”

“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the old man. “The young cock is crowing, heh? Who are you that tells me what I should do, or shouldn’t do?” Hadley was silent. He was sorry now that he had spoken so warmly. “Seems to me, Master Hadley, for a beggar, ye talk pretty uppishly--that’s it, uppishly! And you are a beggar--ye’ve got nothing and ye never will have anything. I’ll find some other disposal to make of my farm here--”

“I’m not looking for dead men’s shoes!” flashed out the boy again. “You’ve had my time, and you’ve a right to it for three years longer. If you want to hire me out as soon as my wound is well, you can do so. I haven’t refused to work for you.”

“Yah!” snarled the old man. “Who wants to hire a boy at this time of the year? The country’s ruined as it is--jest ruined. There’s no business. I tell you that you’re an expense, and I’d ruther have your room than your company.”

Hadley turned swiftly. He had clung to Black Molly’s bridle. Now he climbed upon the horse block and, in spite of his wound, fairly flung himself into the saddle. “You’ve told me to go, Uncle Ephraim!” he exclaimed, with flaming cheeks. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” and, pounding his heels into the mare’s sides, he set off at a gallop along the path, and in a moment was out of sight of the angry farmer.

There was bitterness in the boy’s heart and angry tears in his eyes as Black Molly fled across the pastures and out upon the highway. Hadley Morris did not really love his uncle. There was nothing lovable about Miser Morris. The boy had been misjudged and his mother spoken ill of--and that fact he could not forget. He had tried for a year and a half to keep from a final disagreement with Uncle Ephraim; but to no avail. The old man did not consider Hadley old enough to judge for himself, or to have any opinions of his own. The times were such that children grew to youth and young men to manhood very rapidly. When the fathers went to the war the sons became the providers and defenders of the household; if the fathers did not go, the sons were in the ranks themselves. Questions were not asked regarding age by the recruiting officers, providing a youth looked hearty and was able to carry a musket. And Hadley felt himself a man grown in experience, if not in years, after the exciting incidents of the past few weeks.

“I am able to judge for myself in some things,” he told himself, pulling Molly down to a walk, so as to ease his leg. “If Uncle would accept the fact that I have a right to my own opinion, as he has a right to his, we never would have quarreled. I’d never gone over to the Three Oaks to work. And then I’d never seen any active service, I s’pose. He’s got only himself to thank for it, if he did not want me to join the army.

“But now, I reckon, there isn’t anything left for me to do but that. Jonas can’t have me and keep peace in the family; and I wouldn’t stay after the way Mistress Benson talked last night--no, indeed. I’ll go to some of the neighbors. They’ll give me a bite to eat and a place to sleep till my leg gets well enough for me to walk. Then I’ll go back to the army.”

He so decided; but when Jonas heard his plan he vetoed it at once. “What, Had!” cried the old innkeeper, “d’ye think I’ll let a nagging woman drive you away from here to the neighbors? Nay, nay! I’m master here yet, and she is not really so bad, Had. She doesn’t begrudge ye the bite and sup. Stay till your leg is well.”

“But I shall not feel comfortable as long as I stay, Jonas,” declared the boy.

“And how long will that be? Your leg is mending famously. If you could but ride ye’d be fit to go into battle again now. Ah, lad, I’m proud of you--and glad that it was part through me ye went to the wars. I can’t go myself; but I can give of what I have, and if the mistress does not like it she can scold--’twill make her feel better, I vum.” Then he looked at Hadley curiously. “You’re anxious to get back to General Washington again, eh, lad?”

“I wish I had hunted up Captain Prentice, or Colonel Cadwalader, when I got out of Philadelphia, instead of coming over here,” admitted the youth.

“Then start back now,” Jonas said. “Ride Molly--she knows ye, and ye’ll get back in time to be of some use, mayhap, for I heard this morning that there’s a chance of another battle in a day or two.”

“Take Molly, sir?” cried the astonished boy.

“Yes. Most of my horses have already gone to the cause. I’ve got a packet of scrip, as they call it, for ’em, but it’s little worth the stuff is now, and perhaps it will never be redeemed. But I’m a poor sort of a fellow if I mind that. You take Molly. I know if you both live you’ll come back here. And if she is killed--”

The innkeeper stopped, for his voice had broken. He was looking hard at the boy’s flushed face, and now he reached up and gripped Hadley’s hand with sudden warmth. The youth knew that it was not the thought of the possible loss of Black Molly that had choked the worthy innkeeper, but the fear that, perhaps, her rider would never come back again.

“I’ll take her, Jonas--and thank you. I’ll be happier--better content, at least--away from here. Uncle doesn’t want me, nor does he need me; and certainly Mistress Benson doesn’t wish me about the inn. So I’ll take Molly, and if all comes well you shall have her back safe and sound.”

“That’s all right--that’s all right, Had!” exclaimed the other, quickly. “Look out when them army smiths shoe her. She’s got just the suspicion of a corn on that nigh fore foot, ye know. And take care of yourself, Had.”

He wrung Hadley’s hand again and the boy pulled the little mare around. There was nothing more to be said; there was nothing to keep him back. So Hadley Morris rode away to join Washington’s forces, which then lay idle near the beleaguered city.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

Mary Lane’s Higher Education

By Marguerite Stables

Mrs. Lane dropped down on the door-step and fanned herself with her apron. “It does beat all,” she said, aloud to herself, “how trifling these heathens are. Here I am paying seven dollars a week to this miserable Chinaman to do nothing but the cooking, and now if he doesn’t slip off without a word and leave me to do all the work.”

“Don’t bother about it, mamma,” answered Mary Lane, with an abstracted air, “_pingo_, irregular, we can eat, _pingere_, anything. It’s too hot to worry, _pinxi_, _pinctum_.”

Mary meant to be kind, but as she hunched her shoulders over her book again, her mother’s trials were entirely out of her mind. But for once in her life the overworked woman’s patience forsook her. “I’ve got to bother,” she said, wearily, “what with a houseful of city boarders, and this being quarterly conference and the ministers coming here to dinner, and that heathen away. I can’t let it go, I’ve got to bother.” Then she arose and walked away quickly so her plaints should not disturb her daughter’s studying.

A few moments later a gentle knock was heard at the door, and--“Mamma says she would like to have screens put into her windows, Mrs. Lane,” said a crisp-looking young girl who put her head into the door, “and the water won’t run upstairs, and we need more--why, what in the world is the matter?” she finished abruptly, for poor Mrs. Lane had put down her pitcher, looking as if this was the last straw.

“Everything is the matter,” the tired woman answered, and motioned the girl into the hall to explain that all her troubles seemed to have culminated that morning and that the ministers were to be there for dinner.

“Can’t you get any one to help you?” the girl asked, looking inquiringly through the door at Mary.

“No, she’s too busy studying; I wouldn’t have her stop preparing for her Latin examination for anything; she is going to have a higher education, you know,” she added, with a touch of pride.

The youthful summer boarder looked down at the tired little woman with a bright smile. “Oh, Mrs. Lane, I’m coming right in to help you, myself,” she said; “I just love to do things in the kitchen, honestly I do,” commencing to take off her rings and rolling up her sleeves, as she saw Mrs. Lane had not fully grasped what she had said.

“No, you must not stay in this hot place,” the woman said, noticing the stiff collar and freshly starched duck skirt; “and, besides,” she continued, to herself, as she remembered how some of her boarders, last summer, had tried to have a candy-pull and had set the house on fire, “I can’t be bothered now showing her. I know how these city girls work.”

But by this time the “city girl,” unconscious of Mrs. Lane’s thoughts, had one of the latter’s big kitchen aprons tied around her waist and was waving a wooden spoon by way of punctuating her orders.

“Now, Mrs. Lane, I’m the new hired girl, Blanche is my name, and although I have no recommendation from my last place to give you, I assure you I am honest and willing. You don’t know how I just love to get a chance to fuss around a kitchen; it is such a change from the grind of--” Here the potatoes boiled over and she flew to take off the lid.

The morning wore away much more peacefully for Mrs. Lane than it had begun. Many steps were saved her by the “new girl’s” watchfulness, and there were even several bursts of merry laughter from the buttery, which dispelled more clouds than the real assistance did.

“I may not be so skilled in making bread and doing the useful things,” Blanche apologized, “for I have taken only the ‘classical course’ in cookery. Nettie and I spent last summer down at Aunt Cornelia’s while the rest of the family were in Europe, and she told us we could do whatever we pleased, and what do you suppose we chose? I chose puttering around the kitchen, and Nettie took to hoeing the weeds out of the vegetable garden. And it was such fun!”

The ministers came earlier than they were expected, and Mrs. Lane was hurried out of the kitchen to put on her good dress, with a pledge to secrecy as to the force in the culinary department.

By dinner-time, the Chinaman, having unexpectedly put in his appearance, was waiting on the table as if nothing had happened, but Mrs. Lane was too nervous and apprehensive at first even to notice how different the table looked. There were roses everywhere, a gorgeous American Beauty at each place, and the fish globe in the centre of the table was full of them; but they were all of one variety. Mrs. Lane thought secretly that when the larkspurs and hollyhocks were so fine it did seem a pity not to mix a few in just to give it a little style. She had grave doubts as to the salad when she saw it brought on, although she was bound to admit the yellow-green lettuce looked very pretty, garnished with the bright red petals; but when she tasted it she was reassured. She could not make out what it was made of, but she only hoped it seemed as palatable to every one else as it did to her.

The boarders were all delighted with this new departure, and attributed it to the presence of the ministers, consequently they warmed toward them with a friendliness born of gratitude, and the ministers in their turn did their utmost to return the graciousness and courtesy of the boarders, till the board might have been surrounded by a picked number of congenial friends, so beautifully did everything progress. “Brother” Mason eyed the array of forks and spoons at his plate somewhat suspiciously, wondering if he had them all and was expected to pass them along, but Blanche clattered hers so ostentatiously that he noticed she had the same number and was satisfied.

The success of the next course was due to Mrs. Lane, for the “new girl” explained to the mistress that meats and vegetables did not come in the “classical course.” “Brother” Hicks talked so volubly about foreign missions that Mary did not notice that even the currant jelly was made to do its part in developing the color scheme of the table and that it matched the roses as exactly as if it had been made after a sample. But when the cake was brought in and set before her to be cut she thought at the first glance it was another flower piece, but she saw the quick, approving glance shot from her mother to Miss Blanche, and suspected the new boarder might have suggested its design. It was set on the large, round wooden tray used to mash the sugar in. Even the frosting was tinted an American Beauty pink, and around its base a garland of the same glowing roses. Through the jumble of irregular verbs and the rules for indirect discourse the secret suddenly dawned upon her. It was the city girl who walked with her head so high and wore such beautiful dresses who had made the dinner such a success, while she--but that was different, she was preparing for college.

Mrs. Lane was complacent and happy the remainder of the evening and less tired than she had been for many days, and when the ministers took their leave of her the Presiding Elder said, “I shall remember this evening and the beautiful repast you have given us for a long time to come, Sister Lane.”

Blanche’s bright eyes sparkled with fun, and Mary, although she could not have told why, felt just a bit uncomfortable. “Isn’t it interesting to know that our English words _transfer_ and _translate_ come from the same root?” she said, presently, in her own mind trying to vindicate herself for not helping her mother.

“Oh, don’t,” broke in Blanche, laughingly, “talk about the dirty old roots under ground when we have these glorious flowers that grow on top.”

It had grown too dark for any one to see the pity in Mary’s smile for this frivolous city-bred girl who wasted her time on amusements and learning a little chafing-dish cooking, and didn’t even know what a Latin root was.

Blanche’s mother was kept in her room the next day with a headache, so Blanche’s time was divided between taking care of her invalid and lending a hand to Mrs. Lane till she could get another cook. Mrs. Lane had never expected Mary to help her; knowing how hard her own life had been, she was trying to fit her for a teacher, but as she watched Blanche flying about the house, setting the table, rolling out her cheese straws, running up and down to her mother’s room with a patch of flour on her curly hair, and singing gayly about her work, her tired eyes followed the young girl wistfully. It would be worth a great deal, she admitted, to have a daughter like that, even if she had not a word of Latin in her head. But, of course, the higher education could not be interfered with by the old-fashioned way of bringing up a daughter, and Mary took to books.

“I am going to college this fall if I pass the entrance examinations,” Mary announced at the lunch table, with just a touch of superiority in her tone. She could not have explained just why she felt so resentful toward the city girl.

“Are you going East, or will you stay out here on the coast?” Blanche asked, as if it were the most every-day thing to go to college.

“I have not decided yet, for I shall be the only girl anywhere around here who has gone to college,” she answered, nibbling one of Blanche’s cheese straws with an evident relish.

“Have another,” Blanche interrupted, passing her the plate with a hand that showed two burns and a slight scald. “We used to serve them with tamales when our friends came down from town to the trial foot-ball games.”

“Why, I thought you lived in San Francisco?” Mary said, looking up in surprise.

“I do,” Blanche answered, “but I’ve been down at Stanford the last four years, and have just finished this last semester.”

Mary’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “Why,” she began, incredulously, “I thought you--you--” She did not like to say she had thought that the sunny-faced girl before her had no appreciation of education because she liked to do useful, domestic things, too.

“You thought I could do nothing but cook?” Blanche finished, laughingly.

But Mary did not answer. Blanche Hallsey was certainly not much older than she, and yet, with all her college education, she had been in the kitchen all that hot morning, kneading bread and scouring silver for Mrs. Lane.

“If you decide to go to Stanford, I can write to some of the girls to look out for you,” Blanche went on, for she had not noticed Mary’s attitude of superiority the last few days.

“Oh, would you, please?” Mary Lane pleaded, in a tone that would have greatly surprised her mother had she heard it, for not even she guessed how the fear of going among strangers for the first time in her life had been haunting her diffident little girl.

It was several days, however, before Mary, with her forehead puckered into knots over the “ablative absolute,” could bring herself to knock at Miss Hallsey’s door, and ask for a little assistance.

But that was the beginning of the end of Mary Lane’s priggishness, and the first step toward a higher education in the true sense of the word. She passed her entrance examinations with honors, due, perhaps, to the patient coaching she received during the rest of the summer from Blanche Hallsey. She learned, too, besides irregular verbs, a great many other things fully as useful, topping off with what the college girl called “a classical course in cookery.”

CHEERFULNESS

A merry heart, a smiling face,
Are better far than sunny weather;
A noble life and charming grace,
Like leaves and flowers, grow well together.

--_Carter._

LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD