"The bugles sound the swift recall;
Cling, clang! backward all!
Home, and good-night!"
--E. C. Stedman.
Each day Peggy was taken to Colonel Tarleton to attend his wound. It was
in truth painful, and often her tears fell fast upon the inflamed
surface when she saw the suffering he endured, and knew that it had been
caused by her hand. But it was healed at last, and when she told him
joyfully that he had no further need of bandages or treatment, he looked
at her with some amusement.
"And now for the punishment," he observed. "What do you deserve,
mistress?"
"I don't know," said Peggy, growing pale.
"I leave for the southern part of the state to-morrow," he said. "The
matter must be decided to-day. What say you to a parole?"
"Nay," and the girl shook her head. "My father doth not believe in them,
and neither do I. I want to be free to help the cause in any way that I
can."
"Well, upon my word!" he cried. "You are pleased to be frank."
"Would you not rather have me so, sir?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered. "I would. Then what are we to do? Ah! I have it. I
shall banish you."
"Banish me?" repeated she with quivering lips. "To--to what place, sir?"
"A distant place called Philadelphia," he answered. "Think you that you
can bear such exile?"
"Sir," she faltered, trembling excessively, "do not jest, I pray thee.
I--I cannot bear it."
"Child," he said dropping the banter, "I jest not. I am going to take
you to Georgetown and put you aboard ship for the North. I am sincere, I
assure you."
"Thee will do this?" she cried not daring to credit her senses.
"Yes; and for this reason: In all this land, ay! and in England also, no
one hath ever before shed a tear when aught of ill hath befallen
Banastre Tarleton. Had any other woman, or girl, or man in this entire
Southland wounded me there would have been rejoicing instead of sorrow.
Had you not been sincere I would have made you repent bitterly. As it
is, this is my punishment: that you proceed to your mother as fast as
sail can carry you."
"And they call thee cruel?" cried the girl catching his hand. "Sir, none
shall ever do so again in my presence."
"Come," he said. "I will go with you to your cousins. You must be ready
for an early start to-morrow. A number of loyalists are going to
Georgetown to take ship for other ports, so there will be a numerous
company."
But Harriet received the news with dismay.
"What shall I do?" she cried, the tears streaming from her eyes. "I was
getting better, and now you will go and leave me again. Oh, Peggy, I
want to go too!"
Colonel Owen looked up eagerly.
"Why not?" he asked. "'Twould be the very thing! Peggy, could you not
take Harriet with you? In Philadelphia she would regain her strength. A
change from this malarious climate is what she needs. Won't you take
her, Peggy?"
"Oh, Peggy, do take me," pleaded Harriet. "I shall die here!"
But Peggy made no answer. She looked from father to daughter, from
daughter to father thoughtfully. Over her rushed the many things that
had befallen her since they had entered her life. The father had caused
the death of her dog; had treated her mother and herself scornfully; had
lodged a spy in their very home; and had finally robbed them of
everything the house contained in the way of food.
And Harriet! Had she not deceived them all? Her father, mother and
herself? Would she not do so again if she were to be with them once
more? Would she not spy and plot against the cause if she were given
opportunity? Could she forgive and forget the deceit, the long absence
from her mother, the hardships and trials, and take her to her own dear
home? Could she do it?
Her heart throbbed painfully as she turned a searching glance toward her
cousin. She was so thin, so wasted, so different from her former
brilliant self, that the last tinge of bitterness left Peggy, and a
sudden glow of tenderness rushed over her.
"Of course thee shall come with me," she cried, catching Harriet's hands
and drawing her to her. "And thee shall see how soon mother and I will
make thee well. And oh, Harriet, thee will be in my very own home!"
"Oh, I shall be so glad," cried Harriet, a faint flush coming to her
face. "Father, do you hear? Peggy says that I am to go!"
"You are a good little thing after all, Peggy," observed Colonel Owen,
not without emotion. "A good little thing!"
"I think that I will leave this love-feast," exclaimed Colonel Tarleton,
laughing cynically. "'Fore George, but I am glad the girl is going. A
little more of this sort of influence would be bad for my reputation as
leader of the cruel raiders. Be sure that you are up betimes, Mistress
Peggy. I will have no dallying in the morning."
"I will be ready, and so will Harriet," cried Peggy, darting to his side
and seizing the hand of the arm that she had wounded. Bending quickly
she kissed it, exclaiming, "I will never forget how good thee has been,
sir."
"There," exclaimed he. "I have no more time to spare." And he strode
away.
It was a snowy day in early December, fourteen days later, that Peggy,
mounted on Star and Harriet on Fleetwood, left the ferry, and galloped
into Philadelphia.
"'Tis my own dear city at last," cried Peggy excitedly. "And that is the
Delaware in very truth. Thee hasn't seen a river like it, has thee,
Harriet? We will soon be home now. 'Tis not much further."
And so in exuberance of spirit she talked until at length the home in
Chestnut Street was reached. She sprang to the ground just as Tom, the
groom, came to the front of the house. The darkey gave one glance and
then ran forward, crying:
"Foh massy sake, ef hit ain't Miss Peggy! An' Star! Yas, suh, an' Star!
Mis' Owen will be powerful glad ter see yer. She am in de dinin'-room."
"Yes, it's Peggy. Peggy--come to stay," cried she, giving the bridle into
his hand. "Come, Harriet!"
But Harriet hesitated. For the first time something like confusion and
shame appeared upon her face.
"Your mother?" she whispered. "How will she receive me?" She clasped
Peggy's hand convulsively. "What will she say to me?"
Before Peggy could answer, the door of the dwelling opened and Mistress
Owen herself appeared on the threshold. There were lines of care and
grief in her face, and Peggy was shocked to see that her hair was
entirely white, but in manner she was as serene as of yore.
"I thought----" she began, but at sight of the slender maiden advancing
toward her, she grew pale, and leaned against the door weakly. "Peggy?"
she whispered.
"Mother! Mother! Mother!" screamed the girl springing to her arms.
"Mother, at last!"
Her mother clasped her close, as though she would never let her go
again, and so they stood for a long time. Presently Peggy uttered a
little cry. "Harriet!" she exclaimed in dismay. "I had forgotten
Harriet." She ran quickly down the steps, and putting her arm around her
cousin drew her up the stoop toward Mistress Owen.
For the briefest second a shadow marred the serenity of the lady's
countenance. Then, as she noted the girl's wasted form, her glance
changed to one of solicitude and she took Harriet into her motherly
arms.
"Thou poor child," she said gently. "Thou hast been ill."
"I feared you would not want me," faltered Harriet, the ready tears
beginning to flow.
"We have always wanted thee, my child, when thou wert thine own true
self," answered the lady. "But come into the sitting-room. Sukey shall
bring us some tea and thou shalt rest while Peggy and I talk. Thee must
be tired."
"Tired?" echoed Harriet, sinking into the great easy chair which Peggy
hastened to pull forward. "Tired?" she repeated with a sigh of content
as the exquisite peacefulness of the room stole over her senses. "I feel
as though I should never be tired again. 'Tis so restful here."
"It's home," cried Peggy, dancing from one object to another in her
delight. "And how clean everything is! Was it always so, mother?"
"That speech doth not speak well for the places of thy sojourning, my
daughter," observed her mother with a slight smile. "But tell me how it
hath happened that thou hast returned at last? I wish to know everything
that hath befallen thee."
And nestling close to her mother's side, Peggy told all her story.
The Stories in this Series are:
PEGGY OWEN
PEGGY OWEN, PATRIOT
PEGGY OWEN AT YORKTOWN
PEGGY OWEN AND LIBERTY
* * * * *
LUCY FOSTER MADISON
Mrs. Madison was born in Kirkville, Adair County, Missouri, but when she
was four years old her parents removed to Louisiana, Missouri, and there
her girlhood was spent. She was educated in the public schools of that
place, and graduated from the High School with the highest honor--the
valedictory.
As a child she was passionately fond of fairy stories, dolls and
flowers. Up to her eleventh year the book that influenced her most was
"Pilgrim's Progress." Mrs. Madison's father had a large library filled
with general literature, and she read whatever she thought interesting.
In this way she became acquainted with the poets, ancient history and
the novelists, Dickens and Scott. It was not until she was twelve that
she came in contact with Miss Alcott's works, but after that Joe, Meg,
Amy and Beth were her constant companions. At this time she was also
devoted to "Scottish Chiefs," "Thaddeus of Warsaw" and "Ivanhoe," and
always poetry.
She doesn't remember a time when she did not write. From her earliest
childhood she made up little stories. In school she wrote poems, stories
and essays. When she became a teacher she wrote her own stories and
entertainments for the children's work.
Mrs. Madison's stories for girls are:
Peggy Owen
Peggy Owen, Patriot
Peggy Owen at Yorktown
Peggy Owen and Liberty
A Colonial Maid of Old Virginia
A Daughter of the Union
In Doublet and Hose
A Maid of King Alfred's Court
A Maid of the First Century
End of Project Gutenberg's Peggy Owen Patriot, by Lucy Foster Madison