E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J. P. W. Fraser, Josephine
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A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA
by
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
[Illustration]
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1890,
by
Dodd, Mead and Company.
TO MR. AND MRS. HENRY HORTON LAWRENCE.
The early youth of an old town has a certain simplicity like the youth
of human life. Its struggles, its romance, its unfolding come down
through the earnest hands that have labored for its welfare and left
imperishable monuments. To the legacies of remembrances you have had
handed down to you, I add this little story of a long ago time, a posy
culled from quaint gardens.
_With sincere regard_,
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.
NEWARK, N.J., 1899.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. HERE AND THERE, 1
II. BESSY WARDOUR, 14
III. IN A NEW WORLD, 29
IV. OF MANY THINGS, 44
V. A BOULEVERSEMENT, 58
VI. TO THE RESCUE, 74
VII. AT SOME CROSSROADS, 87
VIII. A LITTLE REBEL, 104
IX. FATE TO THE FORE, 122
X. TO TURN AND FIGHT, 134
XI. A RIFT OF SUSPICION, 150
XII. TRUE TO HER COLORS, 167
XIII. UNDER THE ROSE, 183
XIV. FOR NATIVE LAND AND LOYALTY, 200
XV. PARTING, 215
XVI. LOVE AND TRUE LOVE, 231
XVII. MID WAR'S ALARMS, 238
XVIII. WHOM SHALL SHE PITY, 264
XIX. MIDNIGHT TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY, 279
XX. WHEN THE WORLD WENT WELL, 297
XXI. AN APRIL GIRL, 312
XXII. POLLY AND PHIL, 330
XXIII. PRIMROSE, 342
XXIV. THE OLD AND THE NEW, 364
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA.
CHAPTER I.
HERE AND THERE.
She was swinging her gingham sunbonnet, faded beyond any recognition of
its pristine coloring, her small hand keeping tight hold of the strings.
At every revolution it went swifter and swifter until it seemed a
grayish sort of wheel whirling in the late sunshine that sent long
shadows among the trees. When she let it go it flew like a great bird,
while she laughed sweet, merry childish notes that would have stirred
almost any soul. A slim, lithe little maid with a great crop of yellow
hair, cut short in the neck, and as we should say now, banged across the
forehead. But it was a mass of frowzy curls that seemed full of
sunshine.
With two or three quick leaps she captured it again and was just
preparing for her next swirl.
"Primrose! Primrose! I think thee grows more disorderly every day. What
caper is this? Look at these strings, they are like a twisted rope. And
if thy bonnet had gone into the pond! For that matter it needs the
washtub."
Primrose laughed again and then broke it in the in the middle with a
funny little sound, and glanced at the tall woman beside her, who was
smoothing out the strings with sundry pinches.
"Certainly thou art a heedless girl! What thou wilt be----" She checked
herself. "Come at once to the kitchen. Wash thy face and hands and comb
out that nest of frowze. Let me see"--surveying her. "Thou must have a
clean pinafore. And dust thy shoes."
Primrose followed Aunt Lois in a spell of wonderment. The scolding was
not severe, but it was generally followed by some sort of punishment. A
clean pinafore, too! To be set on a high stool and study a Psalm, or be
relegated to bread and water, and, oh! she was suddenly hungry. Down in
the orchard were delicious ripe apples lying all about the ground. Why
had she not gone and taken her fill?
She scrubbed her face with her small hands until Aunt Lois said, "That
is surely enough." Then she wet her hair and tugged at the tangles, but
as for getting it straight that was out of the question. All this time
Aunt Lois stood by silent, with her soft gray eyes fixed on the culprit,
until Prim felt she must scream and run away.
The elder turned to a chest of drawers and took out an apron of homespun
blue-and-white check, a straight, bag-like garment with plain armholes
and a cord run in at the neck. A bit of tape was quite a luxury, as it
had to be imported, while one could twist cords, fine or coarse, at
home.
"Your Aunt Wetherill's housekeeper is in the next room. She has come
hither to give notice. Next week will be the time to go in town."
"Oh, Aunt Lois! Aunt Lois!" Primrose buried her face in the elder's
gown. A curious yearning passed over the placid countenance, followed by
a stronger one of repression, and she unclasped the clinging hands.
"It is a misfortune, as I have ever said, and there will be just
shifting hither and yon, until thou art eighteen, a long way off. It
makes thee neither fish nor fowl, for what is gained in one six months
is upset in the next. But thy mother would have it so."
Primrose made no further protest, but swallowed over a great lump in her
throat and winked hard. What she longed to do was to jump up and down
and declare she would not go, in a tone that would reach the town
itself. Even well-trained children had unregenerate impulses, but
self-control was one of the early rules impressed upon childhood, the
season and soil in which virtues were supposed to take root and flourish
most abundantly.
There were two doors opening from this kitchen to a small hall, from
thence to the ordinary living room, and a smaller one adjoining, used
for a sort of parlor, as we should call it now, a kind of state room
where the Friends often held meetings. It was very plain indeed. There
were straight white curtains at the windows, without a bit of fringe or
netting. Women used to make these adornments as a kind of fancy work,
but the rigid rules of the Friends discountenanced all such employments,
even if it was to improve odd moments. There was no carpet on the floor,
which was scrubbed to spotlessness; chairs of oaken frame, bent, and
polished by the busy housewife until they shone, with seats of broad
splint or rushes painted yellow. A large set of drawers with several
shelves on top stood between the windows, and a wooden settle was ranged
along the wall. A table with a great Bible and two or three religious
books, and a high mantel with two enormous pitchers that glittered in a
brilliant color which was called British luster, with a brass snuffers
and tray and candlesticks, were the only concession to the spirit of
worldliness.
Primrose entered with a lagging step behind her aunt. There sat Mistress
Janice Kent in her riding habit of green cloth faced with red silk, and
a habit shirt of the same color just showing at the neck where the
lapels crossed. Her hat was wound around with a green veil, and her
gauntlet gloves were of yellow buckskin broidered with black. In one
hand she still held her riding whip. A somewhat airy but
dignified-looking person with dark, rather sharp eyes, and dark hair;
and a considerable amount of color, heightened now by the rapid
exercise.
"Mercy of me! The child has grown mightily!" she exclaimed. "Indeed,
there will not be a thing fit for her to wear! Madam Wetherill was
considering that, and has sent for new measurements. With the last
vessel in, has come lots of choice stuffs of every kind, and the maid
has already fallen to work. How do you do, Mistress Primrose? Rose would
better become such a blossoming maid without the Prim," and she laughed
gayly, as if pleased with her conceit. "Come hither, child; do not be
afraid. There, I'll lay my whip on the floor. It has a threatening look,
I will admit, yet 'tis a harmless thing without the owner's hand. I am
sent to measure thee, Mistress Rose, and to announce that next Wednesday
the chaise will be sent out for you, with perhaps Madam Wetherill.
Meanwhile we shall be making ready to transform you from a sober gray
Friend to a gay young damsel. It is a pity you are not older. There
will be great doings this winter."
Lois Henry's face settled into sterner lines. It was a sweet and
peaceful face, rendered so by some discipline and much freedom from
care. For the Friends made small efforts to shine in society, and at
this period there were few calls upon charity or even sympathy. James
Henry was a prosperous farmer, and the style of living simple. Fair as
to complexion, rather aquiline in features, with blue-gray eyes and
nearly straight brows, her soft hair drawn back from her forehead and
gathered under a plain cap with a frill a little full at the sides and
scant across the top, a half square of white linen crossed over her
bosom, a gray homespun gown reaching barely to the ankles, with blue
homeknit stockings and stout low shoes with a black buckle on the top,
Lois Henry was a fine sample of a Quaker gentlewoman.
"There are many things to life beside gayety," she said rather severely.
"And such a child hath much that is useful to learn."
"Oh, we have a tutor in the house, Madam Wetherill's two cousins will
spend the winter in town, Miss Betty Randolph from Virginia, and Martha
Johns from some western county. There will be lessons on the spinet and
in dancing."
Mistress Kent gave a little smile of malice and a jaunty toss to her
head.
"The child needs nothing of that since she comes back to us and plainer
living. She reads well and is not slow in figures. I shall see that she
is instructed in all housewifely ways, but it is ill making headway when
the tide runs down the stream."
Lois Henry really sighed then. She did hate to have her six months'
labor and interest come to naught. She longed to snatch the child from
these paths of temptation, for now, as she was growing older, they might
be more alluring.
"Come hither, little one, and let me measure you. My, but you have grown
tall, and keep slim, so there will be less for stays to do. 'As the twig
is bent,' you know," laughing and showing her even teeth, of which she
was very proud. "And a fine figure is a great advantage. Your hands are
not ill-kept, I see."
They were tanned, but dimpled, with tapering fingers and rosy nails, and
the skin fine and soft.
"Hands are for use and not ornament. Thou art to do with thy might
whatsoever comes in thy way."
"True, Friend Henry. But a clean room may abound in virtue as well as an
untidy one. And a well-kept person surely is no sin. Put off your shoe,
child. Ah, you have a slim foot, though no one would think it, to see
the shoe."
She had been taking measurements and putting figures on an ivory tablet
that she slipped into a cloth pocket hanging at her side.
"I have the necessary requirements, I believe, and the maid can have a
few things in order. We will send in on Wednesday. That is the date
appointed, Friend Henry."
She picked up her whip with an airy grace, and stood tall and straight,
her habit falling around her feet.
"Now I will bid you good-day, though it is almost evening. Do not look
so sober, little Rose, but then we will soon have smiles displacing the
Quaker gravity, which ill beseems young people. Friend Henry, why do
your community consider smiling sinful when it is so pretty and comes
from a merry heart? A man who went about to commit murder would scarcely
smile, methinks."
"'The laughter of fools is as the crackling of thorns under a pot,'" was
the somewhat severe answer.
"One need not break out into silly giggling," was the rather tart reply.
"I abhor that myself. But a smile on a child's face is much to be
preferred to a frown. 'And a merry heart doeth good like a medicine.'"
"'Children,' saith the wise man, 'are to be brought up in the fear and
admonition of the Lord.'"
"Ah, well! luckily there are many rules and opinions in the world.
Good-by, Rose-blossom. Next week we will welcome thee at Wetherill
House."
Primrose followed her aunt to the door. There were Mistress Kent's horse
and the black servant, who respectfully touched his hat and assisted his
mistress to mount, then sprang on his own steed, and with a wave of the
hand and a nodding of the veil she cantered away.
"Next week! Why, Aunt Lois, how near it is! I had forgotten," Primrose
exclaimed breathlessly.
"It would be a most excellent thing if thou wert allowed to forget
altogether. This continual changing works ill. Now go and stir the meal
and feed those late chicks. Put in some of the cracked corn for the
mother hen."
Primrose went at once, though she was eager to ask about the promised
journey, but the habit of repression was strong upon her, and obedience
to the letter was exacted from children at that period. It must have
been a halcyon time for mothers when a child never ventured to ask why.
Friend Henry went out to the kitchen again. It was a great room with a
wide fireplace and a crane that accommodated two kettles. An iron baking
pot stood in a bed of coals, with a plentiful supply on the cover. The
black woman came and gave it a push partly around, with the tongs, so
that the farthest side should have the benefit of the blaze.
There were even then many Friends who owned slaves, indeed most of the
servants were of African descent. The feelings and beliefs of
Philadelphia were more in consonance with the settlements farther south,
than those to the north of them. But the Henrys held slavery in
abhorrence, and hired their servants. Lois Henry kept but one woman, and
she was quite superior to the average of her race; indeed, like her
mistress, was of the persuasion of Friends.
The two women busied themselves about the supper. If Friends were plain
in their household adornments and attire, they did not stint in food nor
the trouble of preparing it.
Primrose fed the two late broods whose mothers had stolen their nests
and brought off their families in great triumph. One had thirteen, the
other eleven. Their mothers ran cheerfully to the coops and called their
progeny. When the families were within, Primrose took up the slatted
door and fastened it down with a stake and shut up the peeping things so
busy with their supper.
As she was loitering on the way back, she saw her uncle and cousin
Andrew talking eagerly. Did they know she was going away next week? She
ran forward and Andrew turned to her with a smile, while his father
talked on.
She clasped his hands in hers so warm and soft. His were brawny and
hard, but he was a great fellow and he looked down with a kindly,
protective air.
"Oh, do you know Aunt Wetherill has sent over, and----"
"Yes," slowly, "we knew it was time. Madam Wetherill does not forget
easily."
"Primrose!" called her aunt.
She hastened to the kitchen, rinsed out her dipper, and hung it up.
Uncle Henry was washing his hands and Chloe was taking up the hot bread
and dishing the stewed chicken. Oh, how delightfully appetizing the
fragrance was! And she was so glad not to have forfeited her right to
the supper.
"Come to the table," said Aunt Lois.
The four heads were bowed reverently. There was not much talking at meal
time. Aunt Lois was ever afraid of idle words and vain babbling. Uncle
James had a good, hearty appetite, as became his size and strength, and
generally occupied himself in ministering to it. Children in Quaker
households--indeed, in nearly all others--had the wise old adage dinned
into their ears that they were to be seen and not heard, and they also
understood that they were to be seen as little as possible.
When the supper was ended Primrose went out to the kitchen and dried the
teacups, of which Aunt Lois was quite choice, and the silver
heirlooms--the teaspoons her grandmother had brought from old England.
Friend Dunscomb was coming up the path. That meant an evening in the
best room with Uncle James and Aunt Lois. There were many agitating
subjects to talk about in these days. Primrose walked out of the kitchen
door and around the path, sending a long, dubious glance in the
direction of her new home.
Six months ago she had left it. How queer to be divided up in this way.
She had felt lonely at Wetherill House, and missed her mother sadly. To
be sure it was winter, and here on the farm it was glowing, golden
summer. She had not known the dreariness of a long winter here. There
were so many enchanting things, so much life and joy and beauty. In a
vague way it thrilled her, even if she did not understand. There were
rambles in the lanes, and the orchard where she could climb trees; there
was luscious fruit in which she was never stinted. Rides behind Cousin
Andrew on Jack, and going to market, as a rare treat, with Uncle James,
learning to spin on the little wheel, stealing away to the old garret
and reading some forgotten, time-stained books that she dared not ask
about. Sometimes she had a misgiving of conscience, but no one ever
inquired about them, or what she did up there.
Andrew came out and took a seat under the old apple tree. She ran down
to him.
"Andrew, why must I go to Aunt Wetherill's every six months?" she asked.
He glanced at her in a slow, irresolute fashion.
"I must go again next week. It is like a ball being tossed back and
forth. I--I didn't quite like it. I would rather stay here."
"I'm glad of that." He passed his arm around her and gave her a gentle
hug.
"But why must I go?" impatiently.
"It was thy mother's will. Madam Wetherill was her dearest cousin, like
a mother to her. Thou art too young to understand."
"But my mother is dead this long while." There was a sound of perplexity
in the youthful voice.
"Yes. It is hard to explain to thee, and a child should not be thinking
of money. Thy father appointed mine guardian of thee. Then the Wardours,
thy mother's people, left her some fortune, and as thy father was dead
she made her will as she pleased."
"Is a will such a very bad thing, Cousin Andrew?" she inquired in a
timid voice. She had heard much talk through the winter of governing and
restraining the will until it had become a sort of personality to her,
and connected solely with a state of grace, another vague territory.
He smiled. "This is not----" How could he explain it to her
comprehension? He had only the plainest sort of education. For though it
was true that many of the earliest Friends were versed in worldly
knowledge, they had grown more restricted in their narrower lives in the
new country. And on the farms there were not many advantages. Perhaps he
could mend her confusion of mind in another fashion. "When one has some
property or money and desires to give it to another, he or she states
the wish in writing before witnesses. And the law makes this intention
respected. This is too grave a matter for a child's understanding, but
thy mother and Madam Wetherill planned this. When my father protested,
this compromise, I think they call it, was decided upon."
Primrose was not much used to long words. Most of the Friends kept to
brief, concise Saxon.
"A compromise? Is that why I am changed about so? What queer names
things have! I like better living straight along. And I was much
frightened last winter. But there were two little girls in the next
place, and I should have been sorry enough to leave them, only they were
going to England to be educated."
Andrew remembered there was some talk of sending her to England, where
she had a half-brother, but that was not on the mother's side.
"Cannot something be done with this wicked compromise? I should like to
stay here. Andrew, I love you better than anyone in the wide world."
Andrew hugged her up close and gave a soft sigh. He could remember two
little girls sleeping in the Friends' burying ground. One would have
been seventeen now, and had stayed with them five years, dying the night
her sister was born. He had believed it was little Lois come in a new
baby body. And after three brief years she, too, had gone to the other
country. His mother had been graver ever since; more self-contained,
more spiritual, the Friends said.
This little girl, whom they had seen occasionally in her mother's life,
had crept into his heart during her six months' stay and he hated to let
her go. He was so fond of all young and helpless things. The lambs, the
tiny chickens, and the calves appealed to him strongly as they looked
out of asking eyes, it seemed to him. He was beginning to chafe under
the colorless, repressed life about him, and the little girl had been a
great outlet for his affection, though much of it had been nursed in
secret.
"I do not know what can be done, if anything," he said in answer to her
question. "But I am truly sorry. I love thee dearly, Primrose. I wish
thou wert my sister."
He bent over and kissed the soft, fragrant child lips. Oh, how sweet
they were! Was such tenderness reprehensible? He was beginning to think
of love and marriage as strong, heartsome youth will, but, strange to
say, the young woman his father approved of was not at all to his
liking. He was nearing man's estate, and though he labored with himself
to repress what he knew would be considered lawless desires, they
returned again and again. And how much he should long for the sweetness
of this little girl.
She put her arms up around his neck and her soft, caressing fingers
seemed to play with his very heart strings. Oh, how dear she was! And
her new life would be so different. Madam Wetherill rather flouted the
Friends with what she called their drab religion.
"Primrose! Primrose!" called the curiously soft voice of Chloe, that had
a different accent from the habitual evenness of the real Quaker tone.
"Where is the child!"
"Here! here! I am coming." She gave Andrew one long, tender kiss and
then walked rapidly to the kitchen porch.
"Thee should have been in bed with the chickens. Go at once. The moon is
coming up and thou wilt need no light. Forget not thy prayers. Mistress
Janice is an emissary of the evil one that thou must resist."
Primrose went up to her chamber under the eaves in a state of half
terror and restrained rebellion.