He's afoot!"

"The road to Tarrytown, you say?" replied Colden, gathering back his faculties.

"Yes, to Tarrytown! Why do you wait?" Her vehemence of tone sufficed to cover the growing insupportability of her situation.

"To the road again, men!" Colden ordered. "Till we meet, Elizabeth!"

And he hastened, with the rangers, from the place.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'YOU ARE TOO LATE, JACK!'"]

Peyton and Elizabeth remained motionless till the sound of the horses was afar. Then Elizabeth called Williams, who, as she had supposed, had come into the hall with the rangers. He now entered the parlor.

Elizabeth, whose back was still towards Peyton, who had risen and was leaning on the spinet, addressed the steward in a low, embarra.s.sed tone, as if ashamed of the weakness newly come over her.

"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 Pa.s.sAGE.

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 a.s.signed 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, 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 n.o.body 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 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 s.p.a.cious 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 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 ent.i.tled 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 att.i.tude warranted his deception, or, rather, he had not felt that the deception was a discreditable act, as he might have felt had her att.i.tude 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 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 amus.e.m.e.nts. 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 circ.u.mstance 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.

Elizabeth's thoughts were in a whirl, her feelings beyond a.n.a.lysis.

She was sensible mainly of a wholly novel and vast pleasure at the adoration so impetuously expressed for her by this audacious stranger, of a pride in his masterful way, of applause for that very manner which she had rebuked as insolence. Was this love at last?

Undoubtedly; for she had read all the romances and plays and poems, and, if this feeling of hers were a thing other than the love they all described, they would have described such a feeling also.

Because she had never felt its soft touch before, she had thought herself exempt from it. But now that it had found lodgment in her, she knew it at once, from the very fact that in a flash she understood all the romances and plays and poems that had before interested her but as mere tales, whose motives had seemed arbitrary and insufficient. Now they all took reality and reason. She knew at last why Hero threw herself into the h.e.l.lespont after Leander, why all that commotion was caused by Helen of Troy, why Oriana took such trouble for Mirabel, why Juliet died on Romeo's body, why Miss Richland paid Honeywood's debts. The moon, rushing through a cleft in the clouds (she had opened one of the shutters on putting out the candles), had for her a sudden beauty which accounted for the fine things the poets had said of it and love together. Yes, because it opened on her world of romance a magic window, letting in a wondrous light, waking that world to throbbing life, clothing it with indescribable charm, she knew the name of the key that had unlocked her own heart. Now she knew them all,--the heroes, the fairy princes, the knights errant; perceived that they were real and live, recognized their traits and manners, their very faces, in that bold, free, strong young rebel; he was Orlando, and Lovelace, and Prince Charming, and aeneas, and Tom Jones, and King Harry the Fifth, and young Marlowe, and even Captain Macheath (she had read forbidden books guilelessly, in course of reading everything at hand), and Roderick Random, and Captain Plume, and all the conquering, gallant, fine young fellows, at the absurd weakness of whose sweethearts she had marvelled beyond measure. She understood that weakness now, and knew, too, why those sweethearts had, in the first delicious hours of their weakness, trembled and dropped their eyes before those young gentlemen. For, as she mentally beheld his image, she felt her own cheeks glow, and in imagination was fain to drop her own eyes before his bold, unquailing look. She wondered, with confusion and unseen blushes, how she would face him at their next meeting, and felt that she must not, could not, be the one to cause that meeting. Right surely had this fair castle, that had withstood many a long siege, fallen now at a single onslaught, and that but a sham onslaught. The haughty princess in her tower had not longed for the prince, but the prince had arrived, not to her rescue, but to the taming of her. And alas! the prince, whom she fondly thought her lover, was no more lover of her than of the picture of her female ancestor on his bedroom wall!

She gave no thought to consequences, and, as for Jack Colden, she simply, by power of will, kept him out of her mind.

It was three days before Peyton could walk about his room, and two days more before he felt sufficient confidence in his wounded leg to come down-stairs and take his meals with the household. And even then, refusing a crutch, he used a stick in moving about. During the five days when he kept his room, he was waited on alternately by Sam and Cuff, who served at his bath and brought his food; and occasionally Molly carried to him at dinner some belated delicacy or forgotten dish. Williams, too, visited him daily, and expressed a kind of professional satisfaction at the uninterrupted healing of the wound, which the steward treated with the mysterious applications known to home surgery. Williams lent his own clean linen to Harry, while Harry's underwent washing and mending at the hands of the maid. Old Valentine, who visited the house every day, the weather being cold and sometimes cloudy, but without rain, called at the sick chamber now and then, and filled it with tobacco smoke, homely philosophy, and rustic reminiscence. Harry had no other visitors. During these five days he saw not Elizabeth or Miss Sally, save from his window twice or thrice, at which times they were walking on the terrace. In daytime, when no artificial light was in the room to betray to some possible outsider the presence of a guest, he had the shutters opened of one of the two south windows and of one of the two west ones. Often he reclined near a window, pleasing his eyes with the view. Westward lay the terrace, the wide river, the leafy, cliffs, and fair rolling country beyond. His eye could take in also the deer paddock, which the hand of war had robbed of its inmates, and the great orchard northward overlooking the river. Through the south window he could see the little branch road and boat-landing, the old stone mill, the winding Neperan and its broad mill-pond, and the sloping, ravine-cut, wooded stretch of country, between the post-road on the left and the deep-set Hudson on the right. The spire of St. John's Church, among the yew-trees, with the few edifices grouped near it, broke gratefully the deserted aspect of things, at the left. The s.p.a.cious scene, so richly filled by nature, had in its loneliness and repose a singular sweetness. Rarely was any one abroad. Only when the Hessians or Loyalist dragoons patrolled the post-road, or when some British sloop-of-war showed its white sails far down the river, was there sign of human life and conflict. The deserted look of things was in harmony with the spirit of a book with which Harry sweetened the long hours of his recovery. It was a book that Elizabeth had sent up for his amus.e.m.e.nt, called "The Man of Feeling," and there was something in the opening picture of the venerable mansion, with its air of melancholy, its languid stillness, its "single crow, perched on an old tree by the side of the gate," and its young lady pa.s.sing between the trees with a book in her hand, that harmonized with his own sequestered state. He liked the tale better than the same author's later novel, "The Man of the World," which he had read a few years before. Every day he inquired about his hostess's health, and sent his compliments and thanks. He was glad she did not visit him in person, for such a visit might involve an allusion to their last previous interview, and he did not know in what manner he should make or treat such allusion. He felt it would be an awkward matter to get out of the situation of pretended adorer, and he was for putting that awkward matter off till the last possible moment.

It was necessary for him to think of his return to the army. Duty and inclination required he should make that return as soon as could be.

His first impulse had been to send word of his whereabouts and condition. But as Elizabeth had not offered a messenger, he was loath to ask for one. Moreover, the messenger might be intercepted by the enemy's patrols and induced by fear to betray the message. Then, too, even if the messenger should reach the American lines uncaught, a consequent attempt to convey a wounded man from the manor hall to the camp might attract the attention of the vigilant patrols, and risk not only Harry's own recapture, but also the loss of other men. Decidedly, the best course was to await the healing of his wound, and then to make his way alone, under cover of night, to the army. He knew that, whatever might occur, it was now Elizabeth's interest to protect him, for should she give him up, the disclosure that she had formerly shielded him would render her liable to suspicion and ridicule. He felt, too, from the manifestations he had seen of her will and of her ingenuity, that she was quite able to protect him. So he rested in security in the quiet old chamber, dreading only the task of taking back his love-making. Of that task, the difficulty would depend on Elizabeth's own conduct, which he could not foresee, and that in turn on her state of heart, which he did not exactly divine. He knew only that she had, in that critical moment of the troops' arrival, felt for him a tenderness that betokened love. Whether that feeling had flourished or declined, he could not, during the five days when they did not meet, be aware.

It had not declined. She had gone on idealizing the confident rebel captain all the while. The fact that he was of the enemy added piquancy to the sentiments his image aroused. It lent, too, an additional poetic interest to the idea of their love. Was not Romeo of the enemies of Juliet's house? The fact of her being now his protector, by its oppositeness to the conventional situation, gave to their relation the charm of novelty, and also gratified her natural love of independence and domination. Yet that very love, in a woman, may afford its owner keen delight by receiving quick and confident opposition and conquest from a man, and such Elizabeth's had received from Peyton, both in the matter of the horse and in that of his successful wooing. But the greater her softness for him, the greater was her delicacy regarding him, and the more in conformity with the strictest propriety must be her conduct towards him. Her pride demanded this tribute of her love, in compensation for the latter's immense exactions on the former in the sudden yielding to his wooing.

Moreover, she would not appear in anything short of perfection in his eyes. She would not make her company cheap to him. If she had been a quick conquest, up to the point of her first token of submission, she would be all the slower in the subsequent stages, so that the complete yielding should be no easier than ought to be that of one valued as she would have him value her. All this she felt rather than thought, and she acted on it punctiliously.

She did not confide in her aunt, though that lady watched her closely and had her suspicions. Yet there was apparent so little warrant for these suspicions, save the protection of the rebel in itself, that Miss Sally often imagined Elizabeth had other reasons, reasons of policy, for the sudden change of intention that had resulted in that protection. Elizabeth's conduct was always so mystifying to everybody!

And when this thought possessed Miss Sally, she underwent a pleasing agitation, which she in turn kept secret, and which attended the hope that perhaps the handsome captain might not be averse to her conversation. She had both read and observed that the taste of youth sometimes was for ripeness. She might atone, in a measure, for Elizabeth's disdain. She would have liked to visit him daily, with condolence and comfortings, but she could not do so without previous sanction of the mistress of the house, which sanction Elizabeth briefly but very peremptorily refused. Miss Sally thought it a cruelty that the prisoner should be deprived of what consolation her society might afford, and dwelt on this opinion until she became convinced he was actually pining for her presence. This made her poutish and reproachfully silent to Elizabeth, and sighful and whimsical to herself. The slightly strained feeling that arose between aunt and niece was quite acceptable to Elizabeth, as it gave her freedom for her own dreams, and prohibited any occasion for an expression of feelings or opinions of her own as to the captain. But Miss Sally's symptoms were observed by old Mr. Valentine, who, inferring their cause, underwent much unrest on account of them, became snappish and sarcastic towards the lady, watchful both of her and of Peyton, and moody towards the others in the house. It was the old man's disquietude regarding the state of Miss Sally's affections that brought him to the house every day. For one brief while he considered the advisability of transferring his attentions back from Miss Sally to the widow Babc.o.c.k, who had possessed them first, but, when he tarried in the parsonage, his fears as to what might be going on in the manor-house made his stay in the former intolerable, and led him irresistibly to the latter.

Meanwhile the wounded guest, so unconscious of the states of mind caused by him in the household, was the evoker of flutters in yet another female breast. The girl, Molly, had read toilsomely through "Pamela," and saw no reason why an equally attractive housemaid should not aspire to an equally high destiny on this side of the ocean. But, often as she artfully contrived that the black boy should forget some part of the guest's dinner, and timely as she planned her own visits with the missing portion, she found the officer heedless of her smiles, engrossed sometimes in his meal, sometimes in his book, sometimes in both. She conceived a loathing for that book, more than once resisted a temptation to make way with it, and, having one day stolen a look into it, thenceforth abominated the poor young lady of it, with all the undying bitterness of an unpreferred rival.

Though Elizabeth and her aunt found each other reticent, they yet pa.s.sed their time together, breakfasting early, then visiting the widow Babc.o.c.k or some tenant, dining at noon, spending the early afternoon, the one at her book or embroidery, the other in a siesta before the fireplace, supping early, then preparing for the night by a brisk walk in the garden, or on the terrace, or to the orchard and back. Elizabeth had Williams provided with instructions as to his conduct in the event of a visit from King's troops, and, to make Peyton's security still less uncertain, she confined her walks to the immediate vicinity. The house itself was kept in a pretence of being closed, the shutters of the parlor being skilfully adjusted to admit light, and yet, from the road, appear fast.

Thus Elizabeth, finding enjoyment in the very look and atmosphere of the old house, fulfilled quietly the purpose of her capricious visit, and at the same time cherished a dreamy pleasure such as she had not thought of finding in that visit.

On the fifth day after Peyton's arrival, Williams announced that the captain would venture down-stairs on the morrow. The next morning Elizabeth waited in the east parlor to receive him. Whatever inward excitement she underwent, she was on the surface serene. She was dressed in her simplest, having purposely avoided any appearance of desiring to appear at her best. Her aunt, who stood with her, on the other side of the fireplace, was perceptibly fl.u.s.tered, being got up for the occasion, with ribbons in evidence and smiles ready for production on the instant. When the west door opened, and the awaited hero entered, pale but well groomed, using his cane in such fashion that he could carry himself erectly, Elizabeth greeted him with formal courtesy. Though her manner had the repose necessary to conceal her sweet agitation, an observant person might have noticed a deference, a kind of meekness, that was new in her demeanor towards men. Peyton, whose mien (though not his feeling) was a reflex of her own, was relieved at this appearance of indifference, and hoped it would continue. His mind being on this, the stately curtsey and profuse smirks of Miss Sally were quite lost on him.

The three breakfasted together in the dining-room, a large and cheerful apartment whose front windows, looking on the lawn, were the middle features of the eastern facade of the house. The ma.s.s of decorative woodwork, and the fireplace in the north side of the room, added to its impression of comfort as well as to its beauty.

Conversation at the breakfast was ceremonious and on the most indifferent subjects, despite the attempts of Miss Sally, who would have monopolized Peyton's attention, to inject a little cordial levity. After breakfast Elizabeth, to avoid the appearance of distinguishing the day, took her aunt off for the usual walk, which she purposely prolonged to unusual length, much to Miss Sally's annoyance. Peyton pa.s.sed the morning in reading a new play that had made great talk in London the year before, namely, "The School for Scandal." It was one of the new books received by Colonel Philipse from London, by a recent English vessel,--plays being, in those days, good enough to be much read in book form,--and brought out from town by Elizabeth. The dinner was, as to the att.i.tude of the partic.i.p.ants towards one another, a repet.i.tion of the breakfast. In the afternoon, Peyton having expressed an intention of venturing outdoors for a little air, Elizabeth a.s.signed Sam to attend him, and said that, as he had to traverse the south hall and stairs in going to his room, he might thereafter put to his own service the unused south door in leaving and entering the house. Harry strolled for a few minutes on the terrace, but his lameness made walking little pleasure, and he returned to the east parlor, where Elizabeth sat reading while her aunt was looking drowsily at the fire. Peyton took a chair at the right side of the fireplace, and mentally contrasted his present security with his peril in that place on a former occasion.

The trampling of horses at a distance elicited from Elizabeth the words, "The Hessian patrol, on the Albany road, as usual, I suppose."

But, the clatter increasing, she arose and looked through the narrow slit whereby light was admitted between the almost closed shutters.

After a moment she said, in unconcealed alarm:

"Oh, heaven! 'Tis a party of Lord Cathcart's officers! They said at King's Bridge they'd come one day to pay their respects. How can I keep them out?"

Peyton arose, but remained by the fireplace, and said, "To keep them out, if they think themselves expected, would excite suspicion. I will go to my room."

Elizabeth, meanwhile, had opened the window to draw the shutter close; but her trembling movement, a.s.sisted by a pa.s.sing breeze, and by the perversity of inanimate things, caused the shutter to fly wide open.

She turned towards Peyton, with signs of fright on her face. "Back!"

she whispered. "They'll see you through the window. Into the closet,--the closet!" She motioned imperatively towards the pair of doors immediately beside him, west of the fireplace. Hearing the horses' footfalls near at hand, and perceiving, with her, that he would not have time to walk safely across the parlor to the hall, he opened one of the doors indicated by her, and stepped into the closet.

In the instant before he closed the door after him, he noticed the stairs descending backward from the right side of the closet. He foresaw that the British officers would come into the parlor. If they should make a long stay, he might have to change his position during their presence. He might thus cause sufficient sound to attract attention. He would be in better case further away. Therefore, using his stick and feeling the route with his hand, he made his way down the steps to a landing, turned to the right, descended more steps, and found himself in a dark cellar. He had no sooner reached the last step than a burst of hearty greetings from above informed him the officers were in the parlor.

This part of the cellar being damp, he set out in search of a more comfortable spot wherein to bestow himself the necessary while.

Groping his way, and travelling with great labor, he at last came into a kind of corridor formed between two rolls of piled-up barrels. He proceeded along this pa.s.sage until it was blocked by a barrel on the ground. On this he sat down, deciding it as good a staying-place as he might find. Leaning back, he discovered with his head what seemed to be a thick wooden part.i.tion close to the barrel. Changing his position, he b.u.mped his head against an iron something that lay horizontally against the part.i.tion, and so violent was this collision that the iron something was moved from its place, a fact which he noted on the instant but immediately forgot in the sharpness of his pain.

Having at last made himself comfortable, he sat waiting in the darkness, thinking to let some time pa.s.s before returning to the closet stairway. An hour or more had gone by, when he heard a door open, which he knew must be at the head of some other stairway to the cellar, and a jocund voice cry: "Damme, we'll be our own tapsters!

Give me the candle, Mr. Williams, and if my nose doesn't pull me to the barrel in one minute, may it never whiff spirits again!" A moment later, quick footfalls sounded on the stairs, then candle-light disturbed the blackness, and Williams was heard saying, "This way, gentlemen, if you insist. The barrel is on the ground, straight ahead." Whereupon Peyton saw two merry young Englishmen enter the very pa.s.sage at whose end he sat, one bearing the candle, both followed by the steward, who carried a spigot and a huge jug.

Harry instantly divined the cause of this intrusion. The servants were busy preparing refreshments for the officers, and, in a spirit of gaiety, these two had volunteered to help Williams fetch the liquor which he, not knowing Harry's whereabouts, was about to draw from the barrel on which Harry sat.

It was not Elizabeth who could save him from discovery now.

The officers came groping towards him up the narrow pa.s.sage.

Before the candle-light reached him, he rose and got behind the barrel, there being barely room for his legs between it and the part.i.tion. He had, in dressing for the day, put on his scabbard and his broken sword. He now took his stick in his left hand, and drew his sword with his right. He set his teeth hard together, thought of nothing at all, or rather of everything at once, and waited.

"Hear the rats," said one of the Englishmen. It was Peyton's stealthy movement he had heard.

"Ay, sir, there's often a terrible scampering of 'em," said Williams.

"Maybe I can pink a rat or two," said the officer without the candle, and drew his sword. Harry braced himself rapidly against the woodwork at his back. The candle-light touched the barrel.

At that instant Harry felt the woodwork give way behind him, and fell on his back on the ground.