Peggy Owen Patriot Part 6

She sprang up with so much animation that Peggy wondered at her. It was not customary with Mrs. Owen to be hara.s.sed over such a matter as clothes, but her daughter's unselfishness when her need was so great had stirred her to unusual tenderness. Up to the garret they went, the lady leading the way with the agility of a girl. The attic extended over the entire main building. There were great recesses under the eaves which pigeons sought, and dark closets where one might hide as in the old legend of the old oak chest.

From one of the shadowed niches Mrs. Owen drew forth a chest. It was battered and old, yet it required all the lady's strength to force the lock.

"The key is lost," she explained to Peggy who was following her movements with eagerness. "'Tis a mercy the house was occupied by British in place of Hessians. Had they had it everything would have been taken. The English were more moderate in their plundering, though they did take many of Dr. Franklin's books, I hear, and his portrait.[[1]]

"There," she exclaimed almost gaily, drawing forth a yellowing dress, and holding it up to view with gentle pride. "There, Peggy! There is thy frock."

A faint sweet perfume emanated from the folds of the garment as Mrs.

Owen held it up. Peggy touched it wonderingly.

"Whose was it, mother?" she asked almost in a whisper. "Not thine?"

"Mine, Peggy? Why, 'twas my wedding dress." The lady smoothed the satin folds tenderly. "'Twas once the sheerest white, but it hath lain so long that it hath mellowed to cream. But that will be the more becoming to thy dark hair and eyes."

"And I am to wear it?" queried the maiden in awed tones. "Oh, mother, 'tis too much to ask of thee."

"Thee deserves it, my daughter. I would far rather that thou shouldst have the good of it than it should lie here to rot. Let me see!" Diving down into the chest with a gaiety she did not often exhibit, she brought up some little shoes, silken to match the gown. "Ah! I thought these should be here. And here is a fan with sticks of sandal wood. And a piece of fine lawn that will make thee an ap.r.o.n. Come! we shall do nicely. 'Tis a veritable treasure chest we have come upon. We will not explore it further now. There may come another time of need. Take thou the shoon, Peggy, and the fan. I will carry the gown. We will begin work at once. I was slender when the frock was worn, but thou art a full inch smaller about the waist. 'Twill be easily fixed."

With reverent hands Peggy took the shoes and fan, and followed her mother down to the living-room.

As Sally had said, Peggy was indeed thankful for the hours of training in fine sewing and embroidery. When finally the day came for the trying on, and the desired frock fulfilled her highest expectation, her ecstasy was unable to contain itself.

"Thee is the best mother that ever lived," she cried catching Mrs. Owen about the waist and giving her a girlish hug. "What would I do without thee? Oh, mother! what if thee had had no wedding gown? What would we have done?"

Mrs. Owen laughed, well pleased at her enthusiasm.

"We will not consider that part of it, Peggy," she said. "We have it in truth, and it does indeed look well. A new frock would have looked no better. Ah! here is Sally. Let her give her opinion."

"Thee comes just in time, Sally," cried Peggy as Sally Evans was shown into the room. "How does thee like my new frock?"

"'Tis much prettier than mine," declared Sally eying the gown critically. "And vastly distinctive. Where did thee get the material, Peggy? I never saw quite the shade."

"Then thee thinks it citified and a la mode?" queried Peggy, ignoring the question.

"'Tis as sweet and modish as can be," cried Sally generously. "Thee will outs.h.i.+ne all us females, Peggy."

"Thee can't mean that, Sally," reproved Peggy flus.h.i.+ng at such praise.

"I know that thee is partial to thy friend, but that is going too far."

"But 'tis the truth," answered Sally. "Would that I had seen that fabric, and I would have chosen it for my new frock. I did get a new one after all. I teased mother into getting it by telling her that thee was to have a new one."

"Oh! did thee?" cried Peggy. "Why, Sally, this was mother's wedding gown. We went to get a frock, but found the prices beyond us. Mother was determined that I should have the gown though, so she gave me this."

"Mother was going to get it anyway, Peggy," said Sally quickly, seeing her friend's dismay. "It might not have been until later but I was to have a dress this winter. So thee must not think it thy fault that I got it. Would though that I had not. I wonder if my mother hath a wedding gown. This is vastly pretty."

"Is 't not?" cried Peggy. "And, Sally, I hear there is to be dancing after the tea at the general's. It is strange for Quakers to attend such affairs. Why, does thee not remember how we used to wish to attend the weekly a.s.semblies, and how it was spoke against in the meeting?"

"It is strange," a.s.sented Sally, "but Quakers go everywhere now with the world's people. What was it that Master Benezet used to teach us?

Something anent the times, was it not?"

"'O tempora! O mores,'" quoted Peggy. "'O the times! O the manners!' How long ago it seems since we went to Master Benezet's school. Heigh ho!

would I were attending it again!"

"Why, Peggy Owen, would thee wish to miss this tea?" demanded her friend. "For my part I am monstrously glad that I am through with books; for now I am going to--" She paused abruptly. "But 'tis to remain secret for a time," she added.

"Sally! a secret from me?" exclaimed Peggy reproachfully. "I thought thee told me everything."

"I do; usually," returned the other with a consequential air. "But this is of great import, and is not to be known for a few days. Oh, Peggy,"

she cried, suddenly dropping her important mien, and giving Peggy a hearty squeeze. "I am dying to tell thee all about it, but I cannot until-until-well, until the night of General Arnold's tea."

And so it came about that Peggy had another incentive for awaiting that event impatiently.

----- [1] This, in fact, was not recovered until long afterward in London.

CHAPTER VI-TEA AT HEADQUARTERS

"Give Betsy a brush of horse hair and wool, Of paste and pomatum a pound, Ten yards of gay ribbon to deck her sweet skull, And gauze to encompa.s.s it round.

Her cap flies behind, for a yard at the least, And her curls meet just under her chin, And those curls are supported, to keep up the jest, By a hundred, instead of one pin."

-A Verse of the Day.

"Will I do, mother?" asked Peggy, taking up the old fan with the sandal wood sticks, and turning about slowly for the lady's inspection.

It was the night of General Arnold's tea, and the maiden had just put the finis.h.i.+ng touch to her toilet, and was all aglow with excitement.

The creamy folds of the silken gown well became her dark hair and eyes.

The bodice, cut square, revealed her white throat so young and girlish.

Her white silk mitts, long and without fingers, were held to the sleeve by "tightens." A gauze cap with wings and streamers perched saucily upon her dark locks which were simply drawn back from her low, broad forehead, braided with a ribbon, and powdered but little. The prim little frock fell just to her ankles, revealing the clocked white stockings and dainty high heeled slippers with pearls glistening upon the buckles.

"Didst ever behold a more bewitching damsel than thy daughter, Mistress Peggy Owen?" she cried, sweeping her mother a deep curtsey.

Her eyes were s.h.i.+ning. She was for the nonce a happy maiden concerned with naught save the pleasures of girlhood, and possessed of a mood that would have been habitual had not the mighty sweep of public events tinged her girlish gaiety with an untoward gravity.

Some such thought flitted through Mrs. Owen's mind as she surveyed her daughter with tender eyes, and she sighed. A look of anxiety flitted over Peggy's face.

"Is thee not well?" she queried. "Or is it wrong, mother, for me to be so happy when father is in the field?"

"Neither, my daughter. I was but wis.h.i.+ng that thou couldst be as care free all the time as thou art to-night. But there! we will partake of the fruit that is offered leaving the bitter until the morrow. Thy gown well becomes thee, child. I make no doubt but that thou wilt look as well as any."

"Mother," exclaimed the girl, a soft flush dyeing her face, "thee will make me vain."

"I trust not, my daughter. Others will, no doubt, tell thee so, and 'tis as well that thou shouldst hear it first from me. Let it not spoil thee, Peggy. Ah! here is Sukey to tell us that Robert and his uncle have come for us."

Peggy gave a backward look at her reflection in the mirror, and well pleased with what she saw there followed her mother sedately to the drawing-room where Robert Dale and his uncle, Mr. Jacob Deering, awaited them.