"Up in the attic where mother goes
Is a trunk in a shadowed nook--
A trunk--and its lid she will oft unclose,
As if 'twere a precious book.
She kneels at its side on the attic boards,
And tenderly, soft and slow,
She counts all the treasures she fondly hoards--
The things of long ago."
--Anonymous.
"I fear we have made a mistake in returning to town," observed Mrs. Owen
when at length they reached the dwelling after a silent walk home. "I
had no idea things had become so dear. There is hardly such a thing as
living in town, but David wished us to be here. In truth, with so many
outlaws scouring the country, I feel that we are far safer than we would
be on the farm. And yet what shall be done anent the matter of clothes?
Thou must have a frock for the tea party."
"I can wear my blue and white Persian," said the girl bravely. "Thee
must not worry so over my frock, mother."
"Thy Persian was new three years since," objected her mother. "And thou
hast grown, Peggy. Beside, 'tis faded. Stay! I have the very thing. Come
with me, child."
She sprang up with so much animation that Peggy wondered at her. It was
not customary with Mrs. Owen to be harassed 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 apron. 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 à la mode?" queried Peggy, ignoring
the question.
"'Tis as sweet and modish as can be," cried Sally generously. "Thee will
outshine all us females, Peggy."
"Thee can't mean that, Sally," reproved Peggy flushing 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 assemblies, and how it was spoke against in the meeting?"
"It is strange," assented 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.
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[1] This, in fact, was not recovered until long afterward in London.