Part 30 (1/2)
CHAPTER XXVII
A BLENDED ROSE
For weeks the Quaker City girls had been looking forward with much antic.i.p.ation and great eagerness to the eighteenth day of May, 1778.
On that day there was to be a most wonderful, grand and gorgeous pageant in honour of the Howes.
There was much chirping and fluttering those evenings in the homes of the s.h.i.+ppens, the Chews, the Achmutys, the Redmans, and others. In the midst of all this lived Elizabeth Danesford, and a very lively part of it she was.
Among all the Philadelphia beauties--and none in all this great land or the lands across the seas could excel them--Lisbeth was a peeress.
About her shrine could be found as many wors.h.i.+ppers as any of the charming queens could boast. Scions of Britain's aristocracy, favoured with a glimpse from under her dark lashes, forgot their other duties and waited upon her whims. And she, Tory though she was, delighted in seeing the haughty bend the knee to a girl from the Old Dominion.
And that graceful fellow, Andre, who had a knack for rhyme, a little skill with the brush, and could design a lady's costume with even better success than he could pen a verse, ah, he was in his seventh heaven! Time enough to sorrow bye and bye when he should step from a cart with a rope about his neck, all because of Benedict Arnold.
There was a triumphal arch erected in honour of Lord Howe, and another in honour of his brother, the general. There were pavilions to build around the arena in which gaily attired knights, mounted on richly caparisoned steeds, were to contend, knights in white and knights in black, and their reward the favours to be bestowed by the fair damsels of the ”Blended Rose” or ”The Burning Mountain.” And there were men and women no doubt--usually there are--who would have sold their immortal souls rather than have missed an invitation to attend.
Never before had America witnessed such a brave display, the parade of floats upon the river, the fireworks, the tournaments, the dazzling costumes, the sumptuous banquet and the brilliant ball to conclude it all; and then that beautiful Italian name, ”Mischianza,” the t.i.tle by which it should be known to future generations.
The sun was winking at the closed curtains of Lisbeth's room the next morning as she stood before her mirror for a farewell glance at her splendid attire, and that towering head-dress flas.h.i.+ng with jewels over which the hair-dresser had worked long and marvellously. The face was fresh, the beautiful eyes undimmed, the eyes of a conqueror, flas.h.i.+ng as she recalled Lord Howe bending low over her fair hand with unmistakable admiration in his face.
While she thus admired herself, the drums were beating and the soldiers were marching out of the city to capture Lafayette, who, it was thought, would make a suitable decoration for the glory of the Howes. Really they should take away with them something in the way of glory other than memories of an idle winter amid Philadelphia's hospitality, and of the pomp and beauty of the ”Mischianza.” But the poor soldiers came marching back without their prize, while the ladies were yet talking of the fete, their costumes and their conquests. Yet, as we have learned, the soldiers, missing their prize, did bring back a meagre harvest for the maw of the Provost Prison, and of that Rodney Allison was a part.
What of the poor fellow we left moaning in delirium, and Lawrence Enderwood, doing his best to quiet his friend, while he inwardly raged at their jailer's brutality? He was a very sick lad, as Lawrence could see by the morning light filtering through the dirt of the windows.
”He'll not last long in this den; they die like flies. I know, for I've seen 'em,” said a haggard prisoner, who had entered the prison a hale, l.u.s.ty man and was now a tottering skeleton.
Helpless to aid his friend, and forced to sit idly by and see him suffer and die, Lawrence Enderwood buried his face in his hands.
”General Howe well might know this be no place for women.”
The gruff, surly tone of Cunningham was answered by one as sweet as the note of a song bird.
”But, Captain, he surely might know it would be a better place for human beings if it were.”
Lawrence lifted his head and his eyes lighted, as well they might, for the girl was a refres.h.i.+ng picture.
”You are right, Miss Danesford. General Howe not only might, he ought to know about this villainous place.”
”Ah, Mr. Enderwood--pardon, that epaulette declares you are a captain and the red facings of your blue coat indicate that you lead Virginians. Possibly, however, the Mister to you is of more value than the t.i.tle of captain, since your General Was.h.i.+ngton has made himself famous with the British as a plain 'Mister.'”
”It must be very humiliating to their generals to be beaten by a plain 'Mister,' must it not? But I would not say unpleasant things, for verily your visit is most welcome, whether you came to see me or another.”
”You, most a.s.suredly. Colonel Brent was boasting yesterday of having bagged a genuine militia captain from old Virginia, and, when he told me your name, I did not thank him for his exploit.”
”Believe me, I greatly appreciate your kindness. Perhaps, having been so kind to a poor Virginia captain, you may come to speak of 'our'
Was.h.i.+ngton, for you are a daughter of Virginia.”