Peggy Owen Patriot Part 22

"I see not how harm could befall you so long as you stay within the lines," said Mr. Owen indulgently. "But it shall be as Lowry says."

"And what say you, madam my cousin?" The girl turned toward the lady with pretty deference.

"Could not the ride go over for one day?" asked she. "I like not for you to ride alone."

"'Twill be good for Peggy," spoke Harriet with an air of concern. "She is not well to-day."

"Is thee not, my daughter?" asked Mrs. Owen. "Thee is pale."

"'Tis nothing to wherrit over, mother," spoke Peggy cheerfully. "I did not sleep well, that is all. Almost do I believe with Doctor Franklin that the windows should be raised in a sleeping-room, though none but he advocates such a thing."

"Doctor Franklin advocates naught but what he hath proved by experience to be good," declared Mr. Owen, rising. "He is a philosopher who profits by his own teaching. I think 'twould be best for the girls to go, wife."

"Then, by all means, go," decided Mrs. Owen. "But start earlier than usual, so as to be back long before the retreat sounds; else I shall be uneasy."

"We will do that, mother," promised Peggy. And as soon as the morning tasks were finished the maidens set forth.

"Are you not glad that we are alone to-day?" asked Harriet, when they had ridden a while. "I tire of even Cousin David. Do you not?"

"Why, no!" exclaimed Peggy in surprise. "I would rather have father with us. I do not see how any one could tire of him."

Harriet made no reply to this speech, and the two rode for some distance in silence. The February day was chill and gray, the roads slushy, but the outdoor life they had led rendered the maidens hardy, and they did not mind the dampness.

"Why!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Harriet suddenly. "Aren't we on the Elizabethtown turnpike?"

"Yes," said Peggy glancing about. "I knew not that we had come so far.

We must turn back, Harriet. Mother said that she would be uneasy if we were not there before the sounding of the retreat, and the afternoons are so short. 'Twill be time for it before we know it."

"I'll tell you what, Peggy," cried her cousin. "Let's go by Liberty Hall."

"It is too late," answered Peggy. "Thee must know that it is all of twenty miles to Elizabethtown, and though we have ridden a goodly part of the distance 'twould be more than we could do to-day. There and back, Harriet, is not to be thought of."

"Well, I am going, anyway," exclaimed Harriet with more petulance than Peggy had ever seen her exhibit. "So there!"

She struck Fleetwood a sharp blow with her riding crop as she spoke, and set off at speed down the road. Too much surprised to do more than call after her, Peggy drew rein, undecided what course to pursue. As she did so her eye was caught by a folded paper lying in the roadway. Now this had fallen from Harriet's person as her horse started off unnoticed by either girl.

"That's a letter!" exclaimed Peggy as she saw it. "Some one must have dropped it. Could it have been Harriet? I'll get it and tease her anent the matter."

Smiling roguishly she dismounted and picked up the missive. Somewhat to her amazement there was no address, and opening the epistle she found neither address nor signature.

"How monstrously queer!" she cried, turning it about. "Why, why," as her glance rested almost unconsciously upon the writing, "what does it mean?" For with deepening amazement this is what she read:

"Your information opportune. An attempt will be made on the night of the twenty-fourth to surprise brigade at Elizabethtown, and to take the old rebel at L-- H--. Reward will be yours if successful. Can you be near at hand so as to be taken yourself?"

"The brigade at Elizabethtown is General Maxwell's," mused Peggy thoughtfully. "Then the old rebel must be Governor Livingston of Liberty Hall. The twenty-fourth? Why, 'tis to-day!" she cried in consternation.

"Oh! what must I do? 'Tis past four of the clock now."

She looked about dazedly as though seeking guidance. But with Peggy a need of decision usually brought quick result, and it was so in this instance. It was but a moment before her resolve was taken.

"I must just ride there and tell him, and then warn the garrison," she said aloud. "'Tis the only thing to do."

Mounting Star, she shook the reins and started. Before she had gone a dozen rods, however, here came Harriet riding back full tilt.

"Where are you going?" she called. "That is not the way to Bound Brook."

"I know, Harriet," replied Peggy without stopping. "I am going to Liberty Hall. An attempt will be made to-night to capture the governor.

He must be warned."

"How know you that such attempt will be made?" asked her cousin, riding up beside her. "Are you daft, Peggy?"

"Nay; I found a letter in the road saying so," explained Peggy. "Will thee come too, Harriet? And there is no time for chat. We must hasten.

Perhaps though thee would better ride back to tell mother."

"'Tis indelicate for females to meddle in such matters," cried Harriet excitedly. "Think how froward your father will think you, Peggy. Wait!

we will go back to camp, and send relief from there, as doth become maidens."

"It could not reach the garrison in time, as thee knows," returned Peggy, keeping steadily on her way. "Do not talk, Harriet. We must ride fast." The letter was still in her hand.

"Let me see the letter," said Harriet. "Where did you get it? It could not have been long in the road, for 'tis not muddy. Who could have dropped it?"

"Harriet, thee is detaining me with thy clatter," spoke Peggy with some sharpness. "Thee has seen the letter, and know now the need for action.

Either come with me or ride back to camp. We must act."

"You shall not go," exclaimed Harriet reaching over, and catching hold of Star's bridle. "'Tis some joke, and beside, your mother will be waiting for us. Come back!"

Peggy drew rein and faced her cousin with sudden suspicion. "Harriet,"

she said, "is that letter thine?"

"Mine?" Harriet laughed shrilly. "How could it be mine? I was not anywhere near when you found it. Besides, I never saw the governor until yesterday. How could I be concerned in his capture then?"

"True," said Peggy with brightening face. "Thy pardon, my cousin. Thy actions were so queer that for a moment I could but wonder."

"And now we are going right back to the camp," cried Harriet gaily.

"That will show that you are sorry for such thoughts. Why, Peggy, you are getting as bad as John Drayton."

"Nay," said Peggy drawing her rein from her cousin's clasp. "I am sorry that I wronged thee, Harriet, but neither thee nor any one shall detain me from going to Governor Livingston and the garrison. Do as thou wilt in the matter. I am going."

For the second time in her life she struck her pony sharply. The little mare reared, and then settling, dashed off in a gallop. She did not look to see whether her cousin was following her or not. On she rode. The February slush spattered from Star's flying hoofs, and covered her from head to foot, but she did not notice. The daily rides had familiarized her with the road to Elizabethtown, and the minute description given by her father to Harriet the night before now enabled her to head unerringly for the governor's mansion. The short winter day was drawing to a close when all at once she became aware that there was the sound of hoofs behind her.

The sound increased. Presently she felt the hot breath of a horse upon her face, and just as she turned from the Morris turnpike into Livingston Lane, at the end of which stood the governor's country seat, Fleetwood, running as a deer runs in leaps and bounds, dashed past her, with Harriet urging him to greater endeavor.

Before Peggy was half-way down the lane Harriet had reached the great house, sprung from her saddle and was pounding vigorously upon its portals.

"Fly, fly," she cried, as the governor himself came to the door. "The British are coming to take you. Peggy will tell you all. I must warn the garrison."

She was on Fleetwood's back again by the time she had finished speaking, and was off before either the astonished governor or the dumbfounded Peggy could utter a word.