University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The father of Mr. Wharton was a native of
England; and of a family, whose parliamentary interest,
had enabled them to provide for a younger
son, in the colony of New-York. The young man,
like hundreds of others in his situation, had settled
permanently in the country. He married, and the
sole issue of his connexion had been sent, early in
life, to receive the benefits of the English schools.
After taking his degrees at one of the universities
of the mother country, the youth had been suffered
to acquire a knowledge of life, with the advantages
of European society. But the death of his
father recalled him, after passing two years in this
manner, to the possession of an honorable name,
and very ample estate.

It was much the fashion of that day, to place the
youth, of certain families, in the army or navy of
England, as the regular stepping-stones to preferment.
Most of the higher offices in the colonies,
were filled by men who had made arms their profession;
and it was no uncommon sight to see a
veteran warrior laying aside the sword, to assume

the ermine on the benches of the highest judicial
authority.

In conformity with this system, the senior Mr.
Wharton had intended his son for a soldier, but a
natural imbecility of character in his child, had
interfered with his wishes.

A twelvemonth had been spent by the young
man, in weighing the advantages of the different
description of troops, among which he was to serve,
when the death of his father occurred. The ease
of his situation, and the attentions lavished upon a
youth, in the actual enjoyment of one of the largest
estates in the colonies, interfered greatly with his
ambitious projects. Love decided the matter—and
Mr. Wharton, in becoming a husband, ceased to
think of becoming a soldier. For many years he
continued happy in his family, and respected, by
his countrymen, as a man of integrity and consequence,
when all his enjoyments vanished, as it
were, at a blow. His only son, the youth introduced
in the preceding chapter, had entered the
army, and had arrived in his native country but
a short time before the commencement of hostilities,
with the re-inforcements the ministry had
thought it prudent to throw into the disaffected
parts of North America. His daughters were just
growing into life, and their education required all
the advantages the city could afford. His wife had
been, for some years, in declining health, and had
barely time to fold her son to her bosom, and rejoice
in the re-union of her family, before the revolution
burst forth, in a continued blaze, from
Georgia to Maine. The shock was too much for
the feeble condition of the mother, who saw her
child called to the field, to combat against the members
of her own family in the South; and she sunk
under the blow.

There was no part of the continent where the

manners of England, and its aristocratic notions of
blood and alliances, prevailed with more force,
than in a certain circle immediately around the
metropolis of New-York. The customs of the
early Dutch inhabitants had, indeed, blended, in
some measure, with the English manners; but still
the latter prevailed. This was increased by the
frequent inter-marriages of the officers of the mother
country, with the wealthier and more powerful
families of the vicinity, until, at the commencement
of hostilities, their united influence had very
nearly thrown the colony into the scales, on the
side of the crown. A few, however, of the leading
families espoused the cause of the people;
and a sufficient stand was made against the efforts
of the ministerial party, to organize, and, aided by
the army of the confederation, to maintain an independent
and republican form of government.

The city of New-York, and the adjacent territory,
were alone exempted from the rule of the
new commonwealth; and the royal authority extended
no further than its dignity could be supported
by the presence of an army. In this condition
of things, the loyalists, of consequence,
adopted such measures, as best accorded with their
different characters and situations. Many bore
arms in support of the ancient laws; and, by their
bravery and exertion, endeavoured to secure what
they deemed the rights of their prince, and their
own estates from confiscation. Others left the
country; seeking, in that place they emphatically
called home, an asylum, as they fondly hoped, for
a season only, against the confusion and dangers of
war. A third, and more wary portion, remained
in the place of their nativity, with a prudent regard
to their ample possessions, and, perhaps, influenced
by their attachments to the scenes of their
youth. Mr. Wharton was of this description. After

making a provision against future contingencies,
by secretly transmitting the whole of his money
to the British funds, this gentleman determined to
continue in the theatre of strife, and to maintain
so strict a neutrality, as to insure the safety of his
large estate, whichever party succeeded. He was
apparently engrossed in the education of his daughters,
when a relation, high in office in the new
state, intimated, that a residence in what was now
a British camp, differed but little, in the eyes of
his countrymen, from a residence in the British
capital. Mr. Wharton soon saw this was an unpardo
able offence in the existing state of things,
and instantly determined to remove the difficulty
by retiring to the country. He possessed a convenient
residence in the county of West-Chester,
and having been for many years in the habit of
withdrawing thither, during the heats of the summer
months, it was kept furnished, and ready for
his accommodation. His eldest daughter was already
admitted into the society of women; but
Frances, the younger, required a year or two more
of the usual cultivation, to appear with proper
eclat—at least so thought Miss Jeanette Peyton;
and as this lady, a younger sister of their deceased
mother, had left her paternal home, in the colony
of Virginia, with the devotedness and affection peculiar
to her sex, to superintend the welfare of her
orphan nieces, Mr. Wharton felt her opinions were
entitled to profound respect. In conformity to her
advice, therefore, the feelings of the parent were
made to yield to the welfare of his children.

Mr. Wharton withdrew to the “Locusts,” with
a heart rent with the pain of separating from all
that was left to him of a wife he had adored, but
in obedience to a constitutional prudence that
pleadly loudly in behalf of his wordly goods. His
handsome town residence was inhabited, in the

meanwhile, by his daughters and their aunt. The
regiment to which Captain Wharton belonged,
formed part of the permanent garrison of the city,
and the knowledge of the presence of his son was
no little relief to the father, in his unceasing meditations
on his absent daughters. But Captain
Wharton was a young man, and a soldier; his estimate
of character was not always the wisest, and
his propensities led him to imagine, that a red coat
never concealed a dishonorable heart.

The house of Mr. Wharton became a fashionable
lounge to the officers of the royal army, in common
with those, of every other family, thought
worthy of their notice. The consequences of this
association were, to some few of the visited, fortunate—to
more, injurious, by exciting expectations
which were never to be realized, and, unhappily,
to no small number ruinous. The known
wealth of the father, and, possibly, the presence of
a high-spirited brother, forbid any apprehension
of the latter danger to the young ladies; but it
was impossible for all the admiration, bestowed
on the fine figure and lovely face of Sarah Wharton,
to be thrown away. Her person was formed
with the early maturity of the climate, and a strict
cultivation of the graces had made her, decidedly,
the belle of the city. No one promised to dispute
with her this female sovereignty, unless it might
be her younger sister. Frances, however, wanted
some months to the charmed age of sixteen; and
the idea of competition was far from the minds of
either of the affectionate girls. Indeed, next to
the conversation of Colonel Wellmere, the greatest
pleasure of Sarah was in contemplating the
budding beauties of the little Hebe, who played
around her with all the innocency of youth, with
all the enthusiasm of her ardent temper, and with
no little of the archness of her native humour

Whether it was, that Frances received none of the
compliments which fell to the lot of her elder sister,
in the often repeated discussions on the merits
of the war, between the military beaux who frequented
the house; it is certain their effects on
the sisters were exactly opposite. It was much
the fashion, then, for the British officers to speak
slightingly of their enemies; and Sarah took all
the idle vapourings of her danglers to be truths.
The first political opinions which reached the ears
of Frances, were coupled with sneers on the conduct
of her countrymen. At first she believed
them; but there was occasionally a general, who
was obliged to do justice to his enemy, in order to
obtain justice for himself, and Frances became
somewhat sceptical on the subject of her countrymen's
inefficiency. Colonel Wellmere was among
those who delighted most in expending his wit on
the unfortunate Americans, and, in time, Frances
began to listen to his eloquence with great suspicion,
and some little resentment.

It was on a hot sultry day, the three were sitting
in the parlour of Mr. Wharton's house, the Coloned
and Sarah, seated on a sofa, engaged in one of
their combats of the eyes, aided by no little flow
of small talk, and Frances, occupied at her tambouring
frame, in an opposite corner of the room,
when the gentleman suddenly exclaimed—

“How gay the arrival of the army under General
Burgoyne will make the city, Miss Wharton.”

“Oh! how pleasant it must be,” said the thoughtless
Sarah, in reply; “I am told there are many
charming women with that army; as you say, it
will make us all life and gaiety.”

Frances shook back the abundance of her golden
hair, and raised from the work her eyes,
dancing with the ardor of her national feeling, and

laughing, with a kind of concealed humour, as she
asked—

“Is it then so certain, that General Burgoyne
will be permitted to reach the city?”

“Permitted!” echoed the Colonel, in affected
surprise; “who is there to prevent it, if he wishes
it himself, my pretty Miss Fanny?”

Frances was at precisely that age, when young
people are most jealous of their station in society;
neither quite a woman, nor yet a child.
The “pretty Miss Fanny” was rather too familiar
to be relished; and she dropped her eyes on her
work again, with cheeks that glowed with crimson,
as she continued very gravely—

“General Stark took the Germans into custody
—may not General Gates think the British too
dangerous to go at large?”

“Oh! they were Germans, as you say,” cried
the Colonel, excessively vexed at the necessity of
explaining at all, “mere mercenary troops; but,
when the really British regiments come in question,
you will see a very different result.”

“Of that there is no doubt,” cried Sarah, without
in the least partaking of the resentment of
the Colonel to her sister, but hailing already in
her heart the triumph of the British.

“Pray, Colonel Wellmere,” said Frances, recovering
her good humour, and raising her joyous
eyes once more to the face of the gentleman,
“was the Lord Percy of Lexington, a kinsman of
him who fought at Chevy Chase?”

“Why, Miss Fanny, you are becoming a rebel,”
said the Colonel, endeavouring to laugh away the
anger he felt; “what you are pleased to insinuate
as a chase at Lexington, was nothing more than a
judicious retreat—a—kind of—”

“Running—fight,” interrupted the good-humoured

girl, laying great emphasis on the first
word.

“Positively, young lady—” Colonel Wellmere
was interrupted by a laugh from a person who had
hitherto been unnoticed.

There was a small family apartment adjoining
the room occupied by the trio, and the air had
blown open the door communicating between the
two. A fine young man was now seen sitting near
the entrance, and, by his smiling countenance, evidently
a pleased listener to the foregoing conversation.
He rose instantly, and coming through the
door, with his hat in his hand, appeared a tall graceful
youth, of dark complexion, and sparkling eyes
of black, from which the mirth had not yet entirely
vanished, as he made his bow to the ladies.

“Mr. Dunwoodie!” cried Sarah, in surprise, “I
was ignorant of your being in the house; you will
find a cooler seat in this room.”

“I thank you,” replied the young man, “but I
must go and seek your brother, who placed me
there in ambuscade, as he called it, with a promise
of returning an hour ago.” Without making any
further explanation, he bowed politely to the young
women—distantly, and with hauteur, to the gentleman,
and withdrew. Frances followed him into
the hall, and blushing richly, inquired, in a hurried
voice—

“But why—why do you leave us, Mr. Dunwoodie—Henry
must soon return.”

The gentleman caught one of her hands in his
own, and the stern expression of his countenance,
gave place to a look of admiration, as he replied—

“You managed him famously, my dear little
kinswoman—never—no never, forget the land of
your birth—remember, Miss Wharton, if you are
the grand-daughter of an Englishman, you are, also,
the grand-daughter of a Peyton.”

“Oh!” returned the laughing girl, “it would
be difficult to forget that, with the constant lectures
on genealogy before me, with which aunt
Jeanette favours me—but why do you go?”

“I am on the wing for Virginia, and have much
to do”—he pressed her hand as he spoke, and
looking back, while in the act of closing the door,
exclaimed, “be true to your country—be American.”
The ardent girl kissed her hand to
him, as he retired, and then instantly applying
it with its beautiful fellow to her burning cheeks,
ran into her own apartment to hide her confusion.

Between the open sarcasm of Frances, and the
ill-concealed disdain of the young man, Colonel
Wellmere had felt himself placed in an awkward
predicament; but ashamed to resent such trifles,
and in the presence of his mistress—he satisfied
himself with observing superciliously, as Dunwoodie
left the room—

“Quite a liberty for a youth in his situation—
a shop-boy with a bundle, I fancy.”

The idea of picturing the elegant and graceful
Peyton Dunwoodie as a shop-boy, could never
enter the mind of Sarah, and she looked around
her in surprise, when the Colonel continued:—

“This Mr. Dun—Dun—”

“Dunwoodie! Oh no—he is a relation of my
aunt's,” cried the young lady, “and an intimate
friend of my brother; they were at school together,
and only separated in England, when one went
into the army, and the other to a French military
academy.”

“His money appears to have been thrown
away,” observed the Colonel, showing the spleen
he was unsuccessfully striving to conceal.

“We ought to hope so,” added Sarah, with a
smile; “for it is said he intends joining the rebel
army—he was brought in here in a Freneh ship,

and has just been exchanged—you may soon meet
him in arms.”

“Well let him—I wish Washington plenty
of such heroes”—and he turned to a more pleasant
subject, by changing the discourse to themselves.
A few weeks had elapsed after this scene
occurred, and the army of Burgoyne laid down
their arms. Mr. Wharton, beginning to think the
result of the contest to be doubtful, resolved to
conciliate his countrymen, and gratify himself, by
taking his daughters into his own abode. Miss
Peyton consented to be their companion; and from
that time, until the period at which we commenced
our narrative, they had formed one
family.

Whenever the main army had made any movements,
Capt. Wharton had, of course, accompanied
it; and once or twice, under the protection of
strong parties, acting in the neighbourhood of
the Locusts, he had enjoyed rapid and stolen
interviews with his friends. A twelvemonth had
however passed without his seeing them; and the
impatient Henry had adopted the disguise we
have mentioned, and unfortunately arrived on
the very evening an unknown and rather suspicious
guest was the inmate of a house, that seldom
contained any others than its regular inhabitants.

“But, do you think he suspects me?” asked
the captain, with anxiety, after pausing to listen
to Cæsar's opinion of the Skinners.

“How should he?” cried Sarah, “when your
sisters and father could not penetrate your disguise.”

“There is something mysterious in his manner;
his looks are too prying for an indifferent observer,”
continued young Wharton thoughtfully, “and
his face seems familiar to me—the recent fate of

André has created much irritation on both sides.
Sir Henry threatens retaliation for his death; and
Washington is as firm as if half the world were at
his command. The rebels would think me a fit
subject for their plans just now, should I be so unlucky
as to fall into their hands.”

“But, my son,” cried his father, in great alarm,
“you are not a spy—you are not within the rebel—that
is, the American lines;—there is nothing
here to spy.”

“That might be disputed,” rejoined the young
man, musing; “their picquets were out at the
White Plains when I passed through in disguise.
It is true, my purposes are innocent; but how is
it to appear. My visit to you would seem a cloak
to other designs. Remember, sir, the treatment
received by yourself, not a year ago, for sending
me a supply of fruit for the winter.”

“That proceeded from the misrepresentations
of my kind neighbours,” said Mr. Wharton, “who
hoped, by getting my estate confiscated, to purchase
good farms, at low prices.—Peyton Dunwoodie,
however, soon obtained our discharge—
we were detained but a mouth.”—

“We!” repeated the son, in amazement, “did
they take my sisters also?—Fanny, you wrote me
nothing of this.”

“I believe,” said Frances, colouring highly, “I
mentioned the kind treatment received from your
old friend, Major Dunwoodie; and that he procured
my father's release.”—

“True;—but were you with him in the rebel
camp?”—

“Yes,” said the father, kindly; “Fanny would
not suffer me to go alone. Jeanette and Sarah
took charge of the Locusts, and this little girl was
my companion in captivity.”

“And Fanny returned from such a scene a

greater rebel than ever,” cried Sarah, indignantly;
“one would think the hardships her father suffered
would have cured her of such whims.”

“What say you to the charge, my bonny sister?”
cried the Captain, gaily;—“Did Peyton strive to
make you hate your king, more than he does himself?”

“Peyton Dunwoodie hates no one,” said Frances,
quickly; and, blushing at her own ardor, she
added immediately, “he loves you Henry, I know,
for he has told me so again and again.”

Young Wharton tapped his sister on the cheek,
with a shrewd smile, as he asked her, in an affected
whisper,—“Did he tell you also that he loved
my little sister Fanny?”

“Nonsense,” said Frances; and the remnants
of the supper table soon disappeared under her
superintendance.