HEROD OUT HERODED
"But what is life?
'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air,
From time to time, or gaze upon the sun;
'Tis to be Free. When Liberty is gone,
Life grows insipid and has lost its relish."
--_Addison's "Cato."_
"Is thee nearly ready, Peggy? Robert should be here soon with the
wagons."
"Yes, mother." Peggy ran to the head of the broad staircase to answer
Mrs. Owen's call. "There are but few more things to pack. Sally is
helping me."
"That is well, my daughter. Only----"
"Only let our fingers work while our tongues fly?" completed the girl
merrily. "We will, mother dear. Does thee hear, Sally?"
"I hear," laughed Sally as Peggy reentered the chamber. "I think thee
is the one to heed, miss. I am as busy as can be." She worked
industriously on the portmanteau for a few moments, and then looked up
to say, "I am glad that thee is going to ride Star, Peggy."
"So am I," answered Peggy as she donned her riding habit. "Father
wrote that there are some excellent roads about Lancaster, and that,
as he had a good mount, we might have some fine rides together. It
will be quite like old times. I wish thee was going, Sally."
"Well," hesitated Sally, "I would like to be with thee, Peggy, but I
should not like to leave mother again. I am glad to be home, and quite
content to stay here for a time. But I shall miss thee, Peggy.
Particularly as Betty is to leave so soon."
"Betty to leave? Why, where is she going? I had not heard. She was
here yesterday, and she said not a word anent going away." Peggy
paused in her dressing, and regarded Sally inquiringly.
"She told me to tell thee, because she could not bear to," replied
Sally, her tears beginning to fall. "Oh, Peggy, our Social Select
Circle will soon be no more. Betty is going to marry her Frenchman,
and go to France. She said that she would write thee all the
particulars."
"Oh, Sally, Sally! How we shall miss her! Why, how can we get along
without her?"
"We can't." Sally closed the portmanteau with a vicious snap. "I never
did care much for the French alliance, and I think less of it than
ever now."
"Sally, thee won't do anything of the kind, will thee?" asked Peggy
tearfully. "I could not bear for thee to go away."
"I? Oh, I shall never leave Philadelphia, Peggy. I shall always stay
right here, and be a nurse."
"Dear me! there's mother calling again," cried Peggy in dismay. "We
have been talking in very truth instead of working. There is so much
that I should like to hear about Betty. I think she might have told
me. What a belle she hath become, and how pretty she is! So all thy
plans for her and Fairfax would have gone awry, had the poor fellow
lived!"
"Peggy, does thee think that he really cared for her?"
Peggy's brows contracted into a thoughtful look.
"I don't know," she responded. "He was of a truth much interested when
he saw her. She was very sweet that day. It was when Clifford was
here, thee remembers?"
"I remember, Peggy. If thee sees thy cousin will thee tell him all
about how I came to show Sheriff Will the closet?"
"Yes, Sally. I will."
"And if thee gets into trouble, and can't get home, if thee will let
me know I'll come for thee," said Sally impressively.
Peggy laughed.
"There won't be any trouble about it this time, Sally. Father and
mother are with me, and they will arrange everything."
"Thy mother is calling again, Peggy. We will have to go down. Be sure
to write, and I will keep a journal for thee of Betty's doings. She is
to have so many things from France. Would thee were to be here!"
"I should like to be," answered Peggy opening the door. "We are coming
at last, mother."
Quite a caravan awaited Peggy's coming. There were a number of wagons,
some containing Continental stores for the military at Lancaster;
others filled with private property belonging to citizens, and still
others which contained household articles which Mrs. Owen was taking
for her use. All were under a strong guard. A roomy and comfortable
calash had been provided for the lady, in which Peggy was to ride also
when she should become tired of the saddle. Robert Dale, with the
reins of his own horse thrown over his arm, stood waiting by Star's
side to help Peggy mount.
"We were thinking that we should have to become brigands and carry you
off, Peggy," he remarked as the girls joined them.
"Thee will not wonder that I was delayed when I tell thee the news,
Robert," answered Peggy as, with the youth's assistance, she vaulted
lightly into the saddle. "Oh, Sally, I do wish thee was going!"
"And so do I, Sally," spoke Robert.
"I should like to be with both of you, but I am glad to be in
Philadelphia for a time," replied Sally. "Tell him about Betty,
Peggy."
They were off at length, going by way of High Street across the Middle
Ferry into the Great Lancaster Road. The distance was something more
than sixty-five miles, and it was the intention to make it by brief
stages. The road had formerly been known as the King's Highway, and
was famed for the number of its taverns, which were jestingly said to
be as many as its mile-stones. There was, therefore, no difficulty in
making each day's journey as long or short as might be desired.
Peggy felt her spirits rise under the influence of the sunshine, the
refreshing fragrance of the morning air, and the ride among scenes of
romance and beauty. It was a country of rolling hills and gently
sloping vales through which they passed, with occasional rocky dells
and low cascades. A country of orchards, meadows, and woodlands; a
country of flowing water, salubrious, fertile and wealthy; dotted with
a few villages and many fine farms. The road ran incessantly up and
down hill through dense woods of oak, hickory, and chestnut. The face
of the country seemed like a great rolling sea, and it was no wonder
that the girl's heart grew light as the ride unfolded the pleasing and
picturesque landscape to view.
On the afternoon of the third day Peggy and Robert cantered ahead of
the party for a short dash, but the road becoming hilly and steep they
were obliged to slow their horses down to a walk. The road ascended
the North Mountain here rising by three ridges, each steeper than the
former. Below them lay the valley, enclosed on the left by the Valley
Mountain with all its garland of woods; and by the Welsh mountains on
the right. Hills and rocks, waving with the forests of oak and
chestnut, bordered the road and, as their leaves rustled to the wind
and twinkled in the sun, gave to the depth of solitude a sort of life
and vivacity. Peggy had been telling Robert Dale about the attack on
Tom's River, and all the sad details of Fairfax's death. Following the
narrative a silence had fallen between them which was broken abruptly
by Peggy.
"Look yonder, Robert! Something hath befallen a wagon, and there seems
to be no one near it. To thy right. Does thee not see?"
Major Dale uttered an exclamation as his glance followed Peggy's index
finger.
"You are right, Peggy," he cried. "Something is amiss there. The wheel
hath been broken, and the wagon abandoned, yet 'tis full of
merchandise. This must be looked into."
He gave spur to his horse, and dashed forward followed closely by
Peggy. A wagon, one of the Conestoga sort, was drawn to one side of
the road, and left under a tree. One of the wheels was broken, but
there was no sign of horse or driver to be seen, though in truth the
vehicle was filled with goods.
"Well, this is a strange proceeding," mused the young man. "Here we
must needs have an armed guard for the safe arrival of our goods, yet
this wagon stands on the broad highway unmolested. I'll take a look at
these goods. It may be----"
"Good-morrow, friends," spoke a soft voice, and from behind some
bushes a feminine form arose, whether maid or matron could not be
determined at once, so voluminous were her wrappings. Her whole
exterior, as well as her speech, showed that she belonged to the
Society of Friends.
A long cloak of dark-gray superfine cloth enveloped her form
completely. A small bonnet of gray taffeta silk was tied primly with
a demure bow under her chin. It left not a wisp of hair visible. A
riding mask covered her face so that only a finely turned chin was to
be seen. So suddenly did she appear that both Robert and Peggy were
guilty of staring. The youth was the first to recover himself.
"I cry you pardon, mistress," he said springing from the saddle, and
approaching the newcomer. "If this be your wagon, you are in trouble.
Are you all alone?"
"And if I am, friend, what is it to thee?" The words as well as the
manner of the questioner caused the young man to flush, but he
answered promptly:
"A great deal. You are in trouble, and alone upon the highway. I
repeat, 'tis a great deal to me, as it would be to any man to find a
woman so situated."
"Thee must give me thy pardon, friend. Methought the query was
prompted by idle curiosity. By a great oversight my driver forgot to
put his box of tools in the wagon, so that when the accident occurred
he was obliged to ride on to the next tavern for help. I doubt not but
that he will return soon."
"But the distance to the next tavern is six miles. It was unwise to
leave you here alone upon the road. Do you not know that these
highways are not safe?"
"I have seen no one; nor hath any spoke with me before this. I fear
naught."
"But it should not be," he said with decision. "Peggy, do you think
that your mother----"
"Mother would be pleased to offer the friend a seat in the calash,
Robert." Peggy unfastened her riding mask as she spoke, and turned
toward the Quakeress warmly. "I am Margaret Owen," she said. "And this
is Major Dale, of the army. My mother is just beyond yon bend of the
road in her coach. She will be charmed to have thy company to the next
inn, and farther if thee wishes."
"And I am Truelove Davis," returned the other, acknowledging the
introductions with the briefest of bows. She did not remove her mask,
Peggy noted with surprise, but she was conscious that the girl was
regarding her intently. "Perchance," continued the newcomer,
"perchance it would not be agreeable to thy mother to do this
charity."
"Nay, it is thou, friend, that dost lack charity, to suppose any one
unwilling to do so simple a kindness." Peggy's voice reflected her
pained amazement. Friends usually accepted such favors with the same
simplicity of spirit in which they were offered.
"Nay, I meant no offense, Margaret, I think thee called thyself so. I
make no doubt but that thy mother is most gracious."
"Indeed she is," said Robert Dale warmly. "I will ride back and
explain the matter to her. The wagons should be hurried up a bit,
also. I will see to the mending of this wheel, mistress, and send the
wagon along with ours. It is most unwise to leave it here with its
contents unprotected. Will you come, Peggy?"
"Nay, let the damsel abide with me until thy return," spoke Truelove
Davis quickly.
Robert glanced at Peggy questioningly.
"I will stay, Robert, if the friend wishes it," said Peggy.
He saluted and remounting his horse sped back down the road. The
Quakeress turned toward Peggy mildly.
"Did not the son of Belial call thee Peggy?" she asked.
Peggy felt the slight irritation that had assailed her but a moment
since return at this remark, so she answered with dignity:
"Major Dale so called me. All my friends speak of me as Peggy."
"'Tis pity to spoil so fine a name as Margaret by substituting Peggy
for it. I much mislike the practice."
"I do not," responded Peggy briefly.
"I fear thee is frivolous, Margaret," chided the other serenely.
All in a moment Peggy was amused. She reflected that this Friend must
come from one of the country districts where observances as to
demeanor and dress were much stricter than in the cities. She was, no
doubt, conducting herself according to the light that was in her, and
with this view of the situation Peggy's ruffled feelings were soothed.
"I fear so too, Truelove," she said laughingly. "Quite frivolous. Now
thine own name: Did none ever term thee True, or Love? Either would be
sweet."
"Thee must not utter such things," reproved the other in a shocked
voice. "'Tis indelicate for maidens to even speak the word love. Where
is thee going?"
"To Lancaster, to be with my father, who is stationed there."
"Stationed there? Is not thy father of the sect of Friends? Thou art
using the speech."
"Yes; but he is in the patriot army, Truelove."
"Defying those who are set to rule over us? Hath he not been taught to
bear meekly that which Providence hath called us to suffer? Where did
he learn of Fox to retort violence for violence, or that shedding of
blood was justifiable? And does thee hold with these misguided Whigs,
Margaret?"
"I do," answered Peggy shortly. She had dismounted, and was letting
her pony graze while she awaited Robert's return. A slight regret
that she had offered to let this Quakeress be her mother's companion
assailed her.
[Illustration: "WHERE IS THEE GOING?"]
"And was thee not punished for it?" Truelove Davis was regarding her
with a curious steadiness of gaze that Peggy found extremely irksome.
If she would but remove that riding mask, she thought, she could talk
to her better. "Did the friends bear in silence that thee and thine
should depart from their peaceful practices?"
"They read us out of meeting," replied Peggy controlling herself with
difficulty. "Father, nor any of us, did not embrace the Cause of
Liberty without due thought. It did seem to us that life was not of
worth unless it were accompanied by Freedom. To be free to worship God
in our own fashion was the reason that the Great Founder built our
city on the Delaware. England would have taken religious freedom from
us also had not her oppression with regard to political rights been
checked. It was not without the guidance of the inward light that we
arrayed ourselves with Liberty, Truelove."
"Sometimes what one thinks is the leading of the inward light is but
the old Adam that is within us tempting to strife," remarked Truelove
provokingly. "I greatly fear 'tis so in thy case, Margaret. 'Tis
easily seen that thou art of a froward and perverse nature. Come! sit
by me, Margaret, while I read thy duty to thee. Thou art in need of a
lesson."
"Not from thee." Peggy's eyes were sparkling now, and she spoke with
some heat. "Who art thou that 'tis thy duty to read me a lesson? Thou
art a stranger, met but a moment since. I listen to no lesson from
thee, Truelove Davis."
"And there spoke the Owen temper," came from the other severely.
Peggy turned toward her quickly.
"What know thee of the Owen temper?" she asked in amazement.
"Everything, Margaret. How hot and unruly it is. I well know how it
doth refuse advice, howsoever well meant. Thee should be sweet and
amiable, like me."
"Like thee?" Puzzled, perplexed, and withal indignant, Peggy could not
help retorting. "Will thee pardon me, Truelove, if I say that thy
amiability lacks somewhat of sweetness?"
"Nay; I will not pardon thee. Lack somewhat of sweetness indeed,
Mistress Margaret Owen! Does thee think thee has all the sweetness in
the family? Obstinate, perverse Peggy!"
With a cry Peggy sprang toward her.
"Thy face!" she cried. "Let me see thy face. 'Tis Harriet's voice, but
Harriet----"
"Is before you." The girl unclasped the mask and revealed the
laughing, beautiful face of Harriet Owen. "Oh, Peggy! Peggy! for a
Quakeress you did not show much meekness. So you would not take a
lesson from a stranger, eh? You should have seen your face when I
proposed it."
"But how did thee come here, Harriet? And why did thee assume this
dress?"
"Come sit down, and I'll tell you all about it," said Harriet, giving
her cousin a squeeze. "Don't be afraid, Peggy. I promise not to teach
any lesson. I should not dare to. But oh!" she laughed gleefully. "I
shall never forget how you looked. You'll be the death of me yet,
little cousin."