TO THE RESCUE.
Primrose was dismissed, though she saw her Cousin Andrew again at
dinner. Madam Wetherill had quite settled the question. She was going
out to her own country estate, and Primrose would have a change of air
and much more liberty, and under the circumstances it was altogether
better that she should not go to her uncle's, and Madam Wetherill
considered the matter as settled, though she promised to come out the
next day.
The dream of William Penn had been a fair, roomy city, with houses set
in gardens of greenery. There were to be straight, long streets reaching
out to the suburbs and the one to front the river was to have a great
public thoroughfare along the bank. Red pines grew abundantly, and many
another noble tree was left standing wherever it could be allowed, and
new ones planted. Broad Street cut the city in two from north to south,
High Street divided it in the opposite direction.
But even now "The greene country towne" was showing changes. To be sure
the house in Letitia Court was still standing and the slate-roof house
into which Mr. Penn moved later on. But market houses came in High
Street, the green river banks were needed for commerce, and little
hamlets were growing up on the outskirts. There were neighborly rows of
houses that had wide porches where the heads of families received their
neighbors, the men discussing the state of the country or their own
business, the women comparing household perplexities, complaining of
servants, who, when too refractory, were sent to the jail to be whipped,
and the complaints or the praises of apprentices who boarded in their
master's houses, or rather, were given their board and a moderate yearly
stipend to purchase clothes, where they were not made at home. Young
people strolled up and down under the great trees of elm and sycamore,
or lingered under the drooping willows where sharp eyes could not follow
them so closely, and many a demure maiden tried her hand on her father's
favorite apprentice, meaning to aim higher later on unless he had some
unusual success.
Up to this time there had been a reign of quiet prosperity. The old
Swedes had brought in their own faith; the church, so small at first as
to be almost unnoticed, was winning its way. And though Whitfield had
preached the terrors of the law, religious life was more tolerant.
Natural aspects were more conciliatory. The Friends were peace-loving
and not easily roused from placid methods of money-getting. There was
nothing of the Puritan environment or the strenuous conscience that
keeps up fanatics and martyrs. Witchcraft could not prosper here, there
being only one trial on record, and that easily dismissed. The mantle of
charity and peace still hovered over the place, and prosperity had
brought about easy habits. Perhaps, too, the luxuriant growth and
abundance of everything assisted. Nature smiled, springs were early,
autumns full of tender glory.
And though the city was not crowded, according to modern terms, there
were many who migrated up the Schuylkill every summer, who owned
handsome farms and wide-spreading country houses. Chestnut Hill and
Mount Airy, Stenton and the Chew House at Germantown, were the scene of
many a summer festivity where Friends and world's people mingled in
social enjoyment; pretty Quakeresses practiced the fine art of pleasing
and making the most of demure ways and eyes that could be so seductively
downcast, phraseology that admitted of more intimacy when prefaced by
the term "Friend," or lingered in dulcet tones over the "thee and thou."
Madam Wetherill always made a summer flitting to her fine and profitable
farm, and surrounded herself with guests. She was very fond of company
and asked people of different minds, having a great liking for argument,
though it was difficult to find just where she stood on many subjects,
except the Church and her decided objection to many of the tenets of the
Friends, though she counted several of her most intimate acquaintances
among them. She had a certain graceful suavity and took no delight in
offending anyone.
But she was moved to the heart by Lois Henry's misfortunes. The old
mother sat under a great walnut tree on a high-backed bench, with some
knitting in her hand, in which she merely run the needles in and out and
wound the yarn around any fashion, while she babbled softly or asked a
question and forgot it as soon as asked. Rather spare in figure and much
wrinkled in face, she still had a placid look and smiled with a
meaningless softness as anyone drew near.
For a moment Madam Wetherill thought of William Penn, whom her father
had visited at Ruscombe in those last years of a useful life when
dreams were his only reality, still gentle and serene, and fond of
children. Faith was sitting at her knee and answering her aimless talk,
and Rachel had her spinning wheel on the porch.
Madam Wetherill alighted from her horse, and Rachel came out to her. She
sometimes took her servant, but she was a fearless and capable rider.
"I will call my aunt," the young woman said with a courtesy of respect
such as girls gave to elders.
"Tell her it is Madam Wetherill. Nay, I will sit here," as the girl
invited her within; and she took the porch bench.
Lois Henry showed her added cares in the thinness of her face and
certain drawn lines about the mouth, but it had not lost its grave
sweetness.
"I hear you are full of trouble," began Madam Wetherill in her well-bred
tones. What with education on the one side, and equable temperament on
the other, perhaps too, the softness of the climate and the easier modes
of life, voices and manners both had a refinement for which they are
seldom given credit. The intercourse between England and the colonies
had been more frequent and kindly, though the dawning love of liberty
was quite as strong as in the Eastern settlements.
"Yes, there is heaviness and burthens laid upon me, but if we are glad
to receive good at the hands of the Lord we must not murmur against
evil. The spring is a bad time for the head of the house to be laid
aside."
"And you have added family cares. I have come to see if you are willing
to be relieved in some measure. Everyone counts at such a time, while in
a family like ours, with the going and coming, one more never adds to
the work."
"I should be quite willing if we could be assured it was our duty to
shift burthens in times of trouble. James is somewhat disquieted about
the child. Will you come in and talk with him?"
The bed had been brought out to the best room, as it was so much larger
than the sleeping chamber adjoining it. James Henry lay stretched upon a
pallet, his ruddy face somewhat paler than its wont.
"I am pleased to see thee," he said gravely.
"And I am sorry for thy misfortune."
The use of the pronoun "thou" had its old English manner and was not
confined to the Friends alone. The more rigid, who sought to despise all
things that savored of worldliness, used their objective in season and
out. And among the younger of the citified Friends, "you" was not
infrequently heard.
"It is the Lord's will. We are not allowed our choice of times. Though I
must say I have been prospered heretofore, and give thanks for it. I
hear there are other troubles abroad and that those pestilent Puritans,
who were never able to live in peace for any length of time, have
rebelled against the King. I am sorry it hath come to open blows. But
they will soon have the punishment they deserve. We are enjoined to live
at peace with all men."
"The news is extremely meager. There is a great ferment," Madam
Wetherill replied suavely.
"And in town they are holding congresses! The Lord direct them in the
right way. But we have many rebels among us, I think. This was to be a
town of peace. William Penn conciliated his enemies and had no use for
the sword."
"True--true! We shall need much wisdom. But I must not weary thee
talking of uncertainties. There is another matter that concerns us both,
our little ward. As affairs stand I think she had better remain with me
through the summer. She will be on a farm and have plenty of air and
take up some of the arts of country life. She is in good health and is,
I think, a very easily governed child."
"It is not following out her father's wishes. He hoped she would be of
his faith. And the influence here might serve to counteract some
follies. I would rather she came. But Lois is heavily weighted and two
children of the same age----"
"Primrose would have many strange things for her little cousin's ears.
Nay, they are hardly cousins." And Madam Wetherill smiled. A keen
observer might have observed a touch of disdain.
"Except as to faith. She would be forbidden to talk over her worldly
life. We discountenanced it before. It is a sad thing that a child
should be so torn and distracted before she can hardly know good or
evil. I do not think my brother meant this course should be followed."
"Yet he could not deprive the mother of her child. And he gave away his
son for worldly advancement. It was merely that Mistress Henry and her
child should live here half the year. The court decided she could
transfer her rights to another guardian, and I was nearest of kin. And I
shall have to seek heirs somewhere. But one summer cannot matter much,
and it will be a relief to thy overtired wife."
James Henry started to raise himself on his elbow and then remembered
that he was bandaged and strapped, and was but a helpless log. Two
months, the doctor had said, even if all went well, before he could
make any exertion. He glanced at his wife. He must be waited on hand and
foot, and now the child had been filled with worldliness and would need
strong governing. Andrew was overindulgent to her.
"It hath caused me much thought. This time we might make it a year for
good reasons. Mr. Northfield would no doubt consent. Then she would come
in the fall and remain."
"Nay, I will not promise that. Her winters in town are important for
education. It was for that partly that I preferred the winters. She hath
no farm to go to afterward and will lead a town life."
"But so much worldly education does not befit a woman or improve her."
"Yet we must admit that the earlier Friends were men of sound education.
They read Greek and Latin, and now at the Friends' school there are many
high branches pursued. And it is becoming a question whether spelling
correctly, and being able to write a letter and cast up accounts, will
harm any woman. Widows often have a sorry time when they know nothing of
affairs, and become the prey of designing people. I have had large
matters to manage and should have had a troublesome time had I been
ignorant."
James Henry sighed. He had wished before that this woman had not been
quite so shrewd. And though he was a stanch Friend and would have
suffered persecution for the cause, wealth had a curious charm for him,
and he was not quite certain it would be right to deprive Primrose Henry
of any chance. She had seemed easily influenced last year. If Faith
could gain some ascendency over her! But Faith was more likely to be
swayed than to sway, he was afraid.
"Then let the case stand this way," said Madam Wetherill. "After a month
or so matters may be improved with you, and she can come then, being a
month or two later in town."
"Yes, that may do," he answered reluctantly, but he did long for a whole
year in which to influence his brother's child. For surely she was born
in the faith. He would not have gone outside for a convert; the Friends
were not given to the making of proselytes. Everyone must be convinced
of his own conscience.
"Then we will agree upon this for the present. Thou hast my warmest
sympathy, and I shall be glad to hear of thy improvement. I hope Friend
Lois will not get quite worn out. Good-day to thee. If there is anything
a friend can do, command me at once."
"My own patience is the greatest requisite," said the master of the
house, while Lois raised her eyes with a certain grateful light.
She paused a moment for a word with Rachel, a nice, wholesome-looking
girl with the freshness of youth, and who responded quietly but made no
effort for conversation. Faith was still chatting with the grandmother.
Madam Wetherill stepped on the block and mounted her horse as deftly as
a young person might.
"The youth Andrew is not so straitlaced," she ruminated. "And he seemed
much interested in the talk of war. If it comes to that, what will the
Quakers do, I wonder? They can hardly go among the Indians to escape the
strife, and if home and country is worth anything they ought to take
their share in defending it. As Mr. Adams says, it would come sooner or
later. The colonists are of English blood and cannot stand so much
oppression. It is queer they cannot think of us as their own children.
And we of the more southern lands have felt tenderly toward the mother
country, especially we of the church."
Philadelphia believed herself on the eve of great changes, as well as
Boston. Virginia had her heroes that felt quite as keenly the injustice
of the mother country. Patrick Henry had fired many hearts with his
patriotic eloquence. When Governor Dunmore had seized a quantity of
gunpowder belonging to the colonies and had it shipped on board a man of
war, Henry went at the head of a party of armed citizens and demanded
restitution, which was made with much show of ill feeling. Not long
after the exasperated people had driven the Governor from his house,
shorn him of power, and compelled him to seek safety. In North Carolina
there had been a declaration of independence read aloud to a convention
at Charlotte. "An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts, is all that is
left us," said Patrick Henry. And Joseph Hawley said, "We must fight."
The battle of Lexington was the match that started the blaze. The other
colonies were ready. Philadelphia prepared herself for the struggle. At
another meeting it was resolved, "That the United Colonies are of right
or ought to be free and independent states, and that they are absolved
from all duties to the British crown."
Jefferson wrote this declaration, submitting it to Franklin and John
Adams, and many discussions followed before it was adopted. And the
Continental Congress had been much encouraged by the enthusiasm of
Virginia. Washington had said publicly, "I will raise a thousand men,
subsist them at my own expense, and march with them, at their head, for
the relief of Boston."
Mrs. Washington had not been less patriotic, though her love of peaceful
domestic affairs was well known. To a friend she had written, "Yes, I
foresee serious consequences, dark days and darker nights, domestic
happiness suspended, social enjoyments abandoned, property of every kind
put in jeopardy by war, neighbors and friends at variance, and eternal
separations possible."
There had come news of the seizure of fortresses at Ticonderoga and
Crown Point. Ammunition, stores, and fifty pieces of cannon had been
taken. General Gage had announced his intentions of sending "those arch
offenders Samuel Adams and John Hancock" to England to be hanged. The
latter brave rebel had laughed the threat to scorn. But the Declaration
was considered a bold step.
There was a gathering of friends at Madam Wetherill's that very evening,
for it was known that she would soon be out on the farm, and since she
had much at stake in trade and property, many were curious to see which
side she would really espouse.
"The idea of a horde of common people running a government with no head
but their own wills is preposterous!" cried the proud old Tory Ralph
Jeffries, as he settled his wig with a shake of the head and pulled out
his lace ruffles. "Are these canting Puritans going to rule us with
their quarrels?"
"The whole country seems pretty well ablaze. It is like a Latimer and
Ridley fire," was the retort.
"We will put it out, sir! We will put it out! Where would be the dignity
or security of any such government? A pack of braggarts over a little
skirmish. King George is good enough for us."
"Then you may have to emigrate again presently," suggested portly John
Logan. "The storm has been long gathering. Little by little we have seen
our rights abridged, while we have been growing up to the full size of
manhood. We have tried our wit and ability. To-day we could enter the
lists of trade with foreign nations, but our ports have been closed.
England dictates how much and how little we shall do. We are not a
nation of slaves, but brethren with them over the seas. We are not to be
kept in the swaddling clothes of infancy.
"It hath been a sorry hardship not to trade where we will when the
country groweth steadily. It is a great and wonderful land and needeth
only wise rulers to make it the garden of the world. But the taxes are
grievous, and no one knows where this will end. I am a man of peace as
thou all knowest, but when the iron is at white heat and has been struck
one blow it is best to keep on."
"And you believe," returned Jeffries scornfully, "that a handful of men
can conquer the flower of Britain? How many, think you, will come to the
fore if there is a call to arms? A few of these noisy brawlers like
Henry and Jefferson and Adams, and those pestilent Puritans who have
been ever stirring up strife, and a few foolish men easily turned with
every wind that blows. Good Lord, what an army to cope with trained
men!"
"These same brawlers have done England some good service against the
French. They have fighting blood, and when it is roused on the side of
right will be a match for the redcoats at Champlain."
Some of the women were gathered in the hall where there was tea and
cakes, or mead if one liked better.
"But, if there is war, we shall not be able to get anything," said vain
and pretty Madam Jeffries, who was a second wife, and strong of will as
her husband seemed, twisted him around her finger. "And I have just sent
abroad for finery."
"We must come to linsey-woolsey, though the weavers of Germantown make
fine goods, and there is silk already made in our own town. Instead of
so much gossiping and sitting with idle hands we must make our own
laces. It is taught largely, I hear, at Boston, and my mother was an
expert at it. Then there are fringes and loops--and, oh, I think we
shall manage."
"But will there really be war?--Madam Wetherill, it will begin in the
room there," laughing and nodding her head. "They will come to blows
soon. And Hugh Mifflin, methinks, has forgotten his Quaker blood. How
well he talks! And hear--he quotes from the Farmers' letters. I thought
the Friends were resolved not to bear arms."
"Do they always turn the other cheek to the smiter?" asked someone, and
a laugh followed.
In the upper hall Primrose stood by the end window, listening and
wondering. Patty found her there, large-eyed.
"What will there be war about?" she asked. "And will they come here and
take us all prisoners?"
"Nonsense, child! This is no talk for thee. Come to bed at once."
"Patty, did you hear my great-aunt say if I was to go out to the farm?
What if they make Cousin Andrew fight? I should be so sorry."
"Quakers do not fight."
"But brave men do. I have read about them. And I am sure Andrew is
brave."
"Do not be sure of any man. Thou wilt get a sight of wisdom between this
and twenty years. And I believe thou art not to go out to Cherry Hill.
There is too much illness. And we are to move to our own farm."
"And will there be chickens and birds and squirrels, and little lambs
playing about, and----"
"Do not string any more things together with an 'and,' like beads on a
chain, but get to bed. Yes, they seem to be having a fine noisy time
downstairs. I know on which side the madam will be."
"For the King?"
"Not strongly, I think," with an ironical laugh Primrose did not
understand.
"And you, Patty?"
"The King would have poor luck if he depended on me to fight for him.
There, good-night, and good sleep."