A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia

"Oh, I forgot! Little Miss Bella hath so much pretty attire. I do suppose she would be astray in a Quaker frock. Well, what can we do? Mr. Henry, we shall outwit thee, never fear."

"Madam Wetherill hath refused me already," he answered. "But she was merciful."

"And I brought him hither for consolation. An old woman's refusal cannot be so heart-breaking as that of a young lass."

"But we have had no chance to refuse," said saucy Miss Mifflin, raising her coquettish eyes.

"Cherry hill is a large estate, but somewhat out of the way. I have ridden by it," said Norris. "We of the town get spoiled by neighbors. It must be dreary in the winter."

"The evenings are lonesome. In summer, what with being up at sunrise and busy all day, the nights are welcome, but in winter the city hath a deeper interest. Although I have so far been content."

"We are in a curious heat now. Our staid town never saw such a ferment. Every day we wait for news from some of the provinces, north or south. I suppose thou wilt take little heed to it. Yet we number many of the Friends on our side."

"I have not paid much attention to what has gone before, I must admit, but one day I heard some speeches at Carpenter's."

"Nay, you are not to talk war to Friend Henry. He will take us for a party of savages. Is there no more inviting topic?"

They found one that was full of light, harmless jest, and an hour passed so quickly that Andrew Henry was startled.

He rode home alone without seeing Primrose, who could not be found in the nearby haunts. And for the first time strange visions, strange longings filled his mind, as if he had suddenly come to manhood and outgrown the bands that had made his way so strait.

Was it some suggestion of the tempter? All the strong virile blood rushed through his veins, and he only made a feeble fight to subdue it. He did not really want to put it aside.

It was much later than usual when he reached home. In fact the sun had gone down, Julius with the great market wagon had been home hours before.

"Son, what delayed thee so? And the child – where is she?" asked his mother.

He explained that she had gone off with her companion and that he had waited; that Madam Wetherill would bring her up in a day or two. Rachel sat on the doorstep knitting, and some supper was spread in the living room. But he went in to his father first, and, after a few words about Primrose, gave an account of his day's doings, except a little loitering to hear the talk. And he took from his pocket the leathern pouch tied tightly with a string, pouring the money on the bed and counting it over for his father. Then he brought out a curious box much ornamented with copper, now black by age except at the sides where it had been handled, and, unlocking it, put in the money, giving the key back to his father.

"You think Friend Wetherill is quite honest about the child?" he asked feverishly.

"She is not one to place a light value on her own word. The child could hardly have been gotten ready in that brief while."

"There was nothing to get," rather fretfully. "We do not want the vain clothing of the world. The child will be ruined by vanity."

"She keeps very sweet, methinks."

"How canst thou judge? Thy mother hath more wisdom and may tell another story. There, get to supper. It is weary lying here, but the Lord's ways are not as ours."

Andrew ate a little supper in the plain, bare room. On the green where the ladies had sat was a strong cherry table, containing some plates and glasses and a great stone pitcher curiously molded. How the trees had waved overhead and sifted golden gleams and shadows through! There had been a bit of peerless blue sky, the sweetness of the grass, the soft lap of the river that one could hear only when the talk stopped. How beautiful it all was! That was God's world. And the long ride home, the woods in solemn grandeur, the bits of river now and then. He was stirred mysteriously. He was a new man.

Rachel still sat on the doorstep. Sometimes he came out, and, though they said little, there was a pleasure in the nearness.

Penn Morgan returned from the great barn, where he and the hired man had left things comfortable for the night. Anything was safe enough. No need to lock or bolt in this Arcadian simplicity, except to keep cattle from straying.

Penn told over his day's work and the morrow's plans and went to bed. Rachel had not been knitting for some time, but she folded up her work and passed in without a word. Friends of the stricter sort were as careful of vain and idle words as the most rigid Puritan.

He missed something sorely to-night. It was the little girl who had kissed him.

Two days later Madam Wetherill brought her over in the neatest attire, with no furbelows or laces. Primrose had demurred somewhat. "Nay," said Madam Wetherill with a consoling sound in her voice, "they would not like it, and it is only for a few months. All the articles will be here on thy return or in the city," smiling. "It will not be long and thou must be a brave, good girl, and happy, too. Sometime thou wilt choose. A hundred things may happen."

She ran down the path and said good-by to the nodding flowers. She was sorry to part with Bella and Patty, and Casper and the great dog, and the mother cat with the two kittens, and she was loath to leave the gay chatter and the visions of the radiant young women who petted her now and then. She was not afraid of Mistress Kent, though her tongue was still sharp, and she kept her riding whip handy to give Casper and Joe, the black boys, who were very full of frolic, a cut now and then.

The ride in the clumsy chaise was a silent one. Madam Wetherill was surprised to find how the little one had crept into her heart. And she was growing ever so much prettier, more like her mother. It was the care, no doubt. They would let her get tanned and try to subdue the curl in her lovely silken hair. The lady smiled oddly to herself, thinking a mightier power than Quaker rule had put it there. But it would be bad for the child, this continual changing. However, it could not be helped now. One consolation was that she was much too young to give anything but a child's love to her cousin. And he would be married to some thrifty woman before she was grown up.

It was Rachel who came to take the budget done up in a stout hempen cloth, and lifted out the little girl, then holding the horse while Madam descended, and fastening it to the hitching post. The old lady sat under the same tree, but the little girl was weeding in the garden and stood up to look, covered with her widebrimmed hat.

"They have been wondering," said Rachel. "Uncle is not so well. The fever hath been troublesome. Wilt thou come in? And this is the little cousin? Thou and Faith will make nice companions."

Friend Lois came to the door and received her guest with grave courtesy, saying to Primrose, "We have been looking for thee, child," as they walked in.

There was a pitcher of mead standing in a stone jar of cold spring water and both travelers were thirsty. Friend Lois had the name of making it in a most excellent fashion.

"I am afraid Primrose will be a care to thee this summer," Madam Wetherill said with kindly solicitude. "And thy husband is not so well, the young girl tells me."

"My niece, Rachel Morgan. And though the loss of my sister was great and unexpected, her health being robust, and it hath added much to my cares, Rachel is to me as a daughter and a great comfort."

The young girl made a courtesy and stood undecided.

"Does not the broken limb mend?"

"It is doing well. But he hath thought of his duty concerning the child overmuch. I assured him he might let it go for this summer, but he was not minded to."

"It would have been quite as well."

"He did not think so. And since it was on his mind I sent." She gave a soft sigh. "Wilt thou come in and see him? He would rather."

Madam Wetherill walked into the room and greeted the invalid. There was a flush on his cheek and a brightness in the eye that betokened feverish disarrangement. He began to explain in a quick, excited tone.

"Of course it is thy time. We shall not dispute about the law's decision, though Mr. Chew did think it would not be so good for the child, seeing that our lines are cast in such different places. I hope all will go well with you and she will not add to your cares. I will send over to hear now and then."

"Where is she?" in a half-suspicious manner.

"Primrose!" the lady called.

The child came in reluctantly.

"Yes, yes. James Henry has never shirked a duty. And one is entitled to make a fair fight for the soul that belongs to the faith. It was her father's wish."

"I hope thou wilt mend rapidly. The warm weather is trying." There was no use of argument as to faiths.

He nodded languidly.

"And now I will return. I have a long ride before me, and guests at home. Farewell."

No one made any effort to detain her. There was little persuasion among the Friends, who despised what they considered the insincere usages of society.

Primrose caught at Madam Wetherill's gown. Her eyes were lustrous with tears that now brimmed over, and her slight figure all a-tremble.

"Oh, take me back with you; take me back!" she cried with sudden passion. "I cannot like it here, I cannot!"

"Child, it is only for a little while. Remember. Be brave. One's word must always be kept."

"Oh, I cannot!" The small body was in a quiver of anguish, pitiful to see.

Bessy Wardour had loved, too, and then gone away to the man of her choice, if not the life of her choice. But she was much moved by the passionate entreaty, and stooped to kiss her, then put her away, saying, "It must be, my child. But thou wilt come back to us."

CHAPTER VIII.

A LITTLE REBEL

As the carriage-wheels rolled away Primrose burst into a violent paroxysm of weeping. Rachel came forward and took her hand, but it was jerked away rudely.

"Primrose, this is most unseemly," said Lois Henry, looking at her in surprise. "If thou art indulged in such tempers at Madam Wetherill's, it is high time thou went where there is some decent discipline. I am ashamed of thee. And yet it is more the fault of those who have been set over thee."

Primrose Henry straightened up and seemed an inch or two taller for the ebullition of anger. She looked directly at her aunt and the blue eyes flashed a sort of steely gleam. The mouth took on determined curves.

"There is nothing to put me in tempers at home. I like it. I like everybody. And it is the being torn away – "

"But wert thou not torn away from this house last year?"

Primrose was silent a moment. "I hate this being tossed to and fro! And I have learned to love them all at Aunt Wetherill's. I go to Christ Church. I shall never, never be a Quaker. And I am a – a rebel! If I were a man I would go and help them fight against the King."

Lois Henry looked horrified.

"Child, thou art silly and ignorant, and wicked, too. What dost thou know about the King? We do not believe in kings, but we obey those set over us until it comes to a matter of conscience. We leave all these turbulent discussions alone and strive to be at peace with all men. Thou canst not be saucy nor show thy hot temper here."

"Then send me home. Do send me home," said the child with spirited eagerness.

"This is thy home for six months. Rachel, take the bundle up to the little chamber next to that of Faith and put away the things in the cupboard – and take the child with you. Primrose, thou wilt remain there until thou art in a better frame of mind. I am ashamed of thee."

Primrose did not mind where she went. She knew her way up the winding stairs put in a corner off the living room. The house had a double pitch to the roof, the first giving some flat headway to the chambers, the second a steep slant, though there were many houses with nearly flat roofs. This was of rough, gray stone, and the windows small. There was but one, and a somewhat worn chair beside it, the splints sorely needing replacement. A kind of closet built up against the wall, and a cot bed with a blue and gray blanket were all the furnishing.

The child glanced at it in dismay, not remembering that she had been happy here only such a little while ago. But it seemed ages now, just as she had almost forgotten what had passed before. There had been no one to talk over the past with her, and she had missed her tender mother sorely. Children were not considered of much importance then except as regarded their physical welfare and a certain amount of training to make them obedient to their elders. That serious, awesome spiritual life that shadowed so much of childhood under Puritan auspices was not a feature of the more southern colonies. They were supposed to imbibe religious impressions from example. Early in the history of the town there had been some excellent Quaker schools, that of Friend Keith, who sowed some good seed even if he did afterward become a scorn to the profane and contentious, because he started to found a sect of "Christian Quakers," and finally found a home in England and the Anglican Church. But the school flourished without him, and to the Friends belongs the credit of the early free schools. The subtle analysis of later times found no inquiring minds except among a few of the higher scholars. It was not considered food for babes.

Rachel untied the bundle that had been bound up with a stout cord.

"Thou canst put them in the closet in an orderly manner. Then, if thou hast returned to thy right mind, come downstairs."

Primrose looked out of the window without stirring. The great walnut trees were waving their arms and making golden figures on the grass that ran about everywhere. Patty had told her stories of "little people" who lived in the north of England and Scotland, but they only came out in the moonlight. Ah, these were birds or squirrels – oh! there was a squirrel up in the tree, with his great bushy tail thrown over his back. And Primrose laughed with tears still shining on her lashes. Over at a distance was a hen with a brood of chickens, clucking her way along. And there were two pretty calves in an inclosure.

But then there was everything at Aunt Wetherill's, and such rows and rows of flowers. Patty brought them into the rooms in bowls, and the young ladies wore them. What was that? Oh, the little old lady under the tree was walking away —

"Faith," said the clear, calm voice, "leave off thy gardening. Grandmother is growing restless."

Primrose watched with strange interest. Presently a girl of about her own size walked quietly out to the old lady and took her by the arm, turning her around, and led her back to the house. After that – nothing. She was almost frightened at the stillness and began to cry again as a sense of loneliness oppressed her. Oh, she must go back! There was something in her throat that choked her. Then a tall figure came across the field in his shirt-sleeves, and with a great swinging stride.

Suddenly her heart bounded within her body. Like a bird she flew down the stairs, almost running over Chloe, out of the door, skimming along the grassy way, and never taking breath until two strong arms lifted her from the ground and kissed her, not once, but dozens of times.

"Child, when did you come?"

"Oh, such a long time ago! It must be years, I think. And I hate it, the old house and everything! I cannot stay. Andrew, take me back. If you do not I shall run away. I want Patty and Aunt Wetherill, and little Joe, who is always doing such funny things, and Mistress Kent whips him, but he does them over when she is not there, only she comes suddenly – and the pretty ladies who laugh and talk. It is so dreary here."

She raised her lovely eyes that were to conquer many a heart later on, and the lips quivered in entreaty like an opening rose in the breeze.

"Nay – I am here," he said. "And I love you. I want you."

She looked as if she was studying. A little crease came between her eyes, but it seemed to him it made her prettier than before.

"But why must I come? Why must I stay?"

How could he make her understand?

"And there are some other girls – Faith and the big one. I do not like her."

"But you will. I like her very much."

"Then you shall not like me." She struggled to free herself.

"Thou art a briery little Rose," and he smiled into her eyes and kissed her. "I shall hold thee here until thou dost repent and want to stay with me. Faith is not as sweet as thou and Rachel is too old for caresses. Then I am not sure they are proper."

"When I get as old as Rachel – how old is that? shalt thou cease to care whether I come or not?"

"I shall never cease to care. If I could change places with Madam Wetherill I would never let thee go. But what folly am I talking! It is the law that thou shalt do so."

"Who makes the law? Put me down, Andrew; I feel as if part of my body would be drawn from the other part. Oh," laughing in a rippling, merry fashion, "if such a thing did happen! If there could be two of me! Rose should be the part with the pink cheeks and the red, red lips, and the bright eyes, and the other, Prim, might stay here."

"Thou naughty little midget! I am glad there cannot be two, if that is thy division. I will take part of the time instead. Little Primrose, it is a sad thing to part with those we love, even for a brief while. The place was not the same when thou went away. And surely, then, thou wert sorry to go."

Primrose was silent so long that he glanced into her eyes. There was such a difference in eyes the young Quaker had learned. The pretty, laughing women on the green at Wetherill farm had said so much with theirs when they had not uttered a word. Rachel's were a dullish-blue, sometimes a kind of lead color, Faith's light, with curious greenish shadows in them. But these were like a bit out of the most beautiful sky.

"It seemed quite terrible to me then," she made answer slowly. "Are people very queer, Andrew? For then I was afraid of Mistress Kent and Aunt Wetherill and everybody, and I wanted to stay here. And now it is so merry and pleasant in Arch Street, and there is the spinet that I sing to, and the lessons I learn, and some books with verses in and tales of strange places and people, and going out to the shops with Patty and watching the boys snowballing, and learning to slide."

"But thou art not in Arch Street, and there is a farm here. Come, let us find the early sweet apples. I think there are some ripe ones, and thou art so fond of them."

They walked along together. "Still, I do not understand why a thing should be so dear and pleasant and then change and look – look hateful to you!"

There was a pang in the great fellow's tender heart.

"Nay, not hateful!" he said pleadingly.

"But I did not want to stay. Aunt Lois looked stern and spoke crossly. And I am not a Quaker any more. I told her so. And I am a – a rebel! I will have no English King."

Her tone accented it all with capitals.

"Thou art a rebel, sure enough." Yet he smiled tenderly on her. Whatever she was was sweet.

"And I said I would fight against the King."

"Heaven send there may not be much fighting! Even now it is hoped the colonists will give way a little and the King yield them some liberties, and we shall be at peace again."

"But we will have a king of our very own," she said willfully, forgetting her protest of a moment agone. "The old one in England shall not rule over us. And why do not the people who like him go back to that country?"

"They cannot very well. They have their land and their business here."

"Then they should try to agree."

"Dost thou try to agree when things are not to thy liking?"

She glanced up with a beseeching, irresistible softness in her eyes, and then hung her dainty head.

"But you have the other girl Faith. And Aunt Lois thinks what I learn is wrong. And – and – "

They paused under the wide-spreading tree. What a fine orchard it was! Andrew pulled down a branch and felt of several apples, then found one with a soft side.

"There is a good half to that. I will cut it with my knife and the chickens may find the rest. There are plenty more."

"Oh, how delicious! I had almost forgotten the apples. Things ought to be sewn up in one's mind and never drop out. We have had none save some green ones to be gathered for sauce and pies."

"And there will be many other things. The peaches hang full. And there are pears, but the cherries are all gone save the bitter wild ones. Then thou canst find the squirrels again, and there is a pretty, shy little colt in the west field, with a white star in his forehead."

"Madam Wetherill has three little colts," she returned rather triumphantly. "And calves, and oh! such a lot of pretty, little pinky-white pigs."

He cut another apple and fed it to her.

"We shall have walks and thou shalt ride on a pillion. And I have found some books up in the old garret that have verses in them. Oh, wilt thou not try to be content?"

She felt it was naughty, yet she cast about her for other protestations.

"But I am not a Quaker. I say the Lord's Prayer aloud when I go to bed, over and over again."

"I like it myself," he returned reverently. "But one needs to desire – various matters."

There had been serious questions among the Friends; some insisting all forms were hampering, and that spiritual life was a law unto itself and could be moved only by divine guidance, as even the Apostles were ordered to take no heed as to what they should say. Yet, amid the many shades of opinion, there had not been much dissension. Of late years not a few had been scandalized by the defection of the Penns and several others from the ways of their fathers, and drawn the cords a little tighter, making the dress plainer and marking a difference between them and the world's people.

"Thou couldst take me to the farm some day when I have learned to ride on a pillion – just for a visit."

How coaxing the tone was! How bewitchingly the eyes smiled up into his!

"Thou wilt stay and be content?" he said persuasively.

"I will think. Content? That is a great thing."

"Yes. And now let us return."

"If there were no one but thou I should be quite happy," she said innocently.

So they walked on. Rachel was standing down at the end of the path with the horn in her hand.

"It is nigh supper time," she said, "and thy father wishes to see thee. To-morrow is market day. Primrose, didst thou put away thy things neatly?"

"I will do it now."

The child ran upstairs.

"A self-willed little thing," commented Rachel, "and she has much temper."

"But a great deal of sweetness withal. And she hath been much petted. She will feel strange for a few days. Be kindly affectioned toward her."

Rachel made no reply. She went to the kitchen where Chloe had her master's supper prepared, a very simple one to-night on account of the fever, and carried it in. Then she blew a long blast on the horn, which she had forgotten in her surprise at seeing Primrose clinging to Andrew's hand.

When Primrose reached the little room her old feelings returned. She frowned on the parcel lying on the floor, as if it were an alien thing that she would like to hide away. There were several shelves in the closet and some hooks at one end. Oh, here were some frocks she had worn last summer, homespun goods! A pair of clumsy shoes, larger than those she had on, and she gave them a little kick.

Grandmother was in the living room, sitting by the window. Very pale and frail she looked.

"Faith," she said. "Faith," in a tremulous voice.

"I am not Faith. My name is Primrose Henry," and the child came nearer with a vague curiosity.

"No, thou art not a true Henry with that trifling name. The Henrys were sober, discreet people, fearing the Lord and serving Him. What didst thou say?" lapsing in memory and looking up with frightened eyes. "Thou art a strange girl and I want Faith."

She began to cry with a soft, sad whine.

"Grandmother, yes; Faith will be here in a minute. This is Andrew's cousin, his dead uncle's child, Philemon Henry."

"And she said her name was – a posy of some sort; I forget. They used to take posies to meetings, sweet marjoram and rosemary. And there was fennel. It was a long while ago. Why did Philemon Henry die?"