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?"
Primrose looked at her curiously.
"That was my own father," she said with a feeling that these people had
no right of real ownership in him, except Andrew.
Aunt Lois came out, and taking her mother's hand, said, "Come and have
some supper." Then, turning to Primrose, "I hope thou art in a better
humor, child. It does not speak well for town training that thou
shouldst fly in such a passion with thy elders."
"Who was in a passion?" repeated grandmother with a parrot-like
intonation. "Not one of the Lord's people I hope?"
"Silence, mother!"
Lois Henry spoke in a low tone but with a certain decision. She was like
a child and had to be governed in that manner. They were all taking
their places at the table, Lois at the head and Rachel next to
grandmother on the other side, then Faith and Primrose. Opposite the
workmen were ranged, Andrew with one on either hand. The colored help
had a table in the kitchen. This was the only distinction the Henrys
made.
Lois Henry accepted the burthen of a half demented mother with a quiet
resignation. In her serene faith she never inquired why a capable and
devoted Christian woman should have her mind darkened and be made
comparatively helpless while physical strength remained, though it was a
matter of some perplexity why her sister should have been taken and her
mother left.
The master's seat at the foot of the table was vacant. Lois would have
it so. It seemed as if they were only waiting for him.
Primrose had turned scarlet at her aunt's rebuke and Faith's scrutiny.
After the silent blessing the supper was eaten quietly, Chloe coming in
now and then to bring some dish or take away an empty one. And when they
rose Faith led her grandmother out under the tree where she spent her
half hour before bedtime, unless it rained. Rachel went in to Uncle
Henry, and Lois took a careful supervision of the kitchen department,
that did miss her steady oversight, though Rachel was very womanly.
Primrose sauntered out and sat down on the doorstep, feeling very
strange and lonely, and resenting a little the knowledge of having been
crowded out. Penn Morgan gave her a sharp look as he went out with the
milking pail. There was still considerable work to do before bedtime.
When Rachel was released she took grandmother to bed. The window had
been made secure with some slats nailed across, for she had been known
to roam about in the night. Her room opened into that of Rachel's
instead of the little hall, and the girl closed the door and put a small
wedge above the latch so that it could not be opened.
James Henry had asked in a vague, feverish way if they had allowed
Primrose to go back with her aunt.
"Why, no," answered Lois. "Wilt thou see her?"
"No, no! I cannot be disturbed. It is but right that she should come.
Thou wilt no doubt find her head full of vagaries and worldliness. What
can one do when the enemy sows tares? I cannot resign myself to letting
them grow together."
"Yet so the Lord has bidden."
"Nay, we are to do our duty in the Lord's vineyard as well as in the
fields. I uproot noxious weeds, or I should have fields overrun. And now
that haying has begun I must lie here like a log and not even look out
to see what is going on," and he groaned.
"But Andrew is almost like thyself, and Penn this two year hath managed
for his mother. We must submit to the Lord's will. Think if I had lost
thee, James, and men have been killed by a less mishap!"
James Henry sighed, unresigned.
Faith came out timidly to the doorstep, and looked askance at Primrose.
She was not robust and ruddy like Penn and Rachel, and yet she did not
look delicate, and though fair by nature was a little tanned by sun and
wind. Not that the Friends were indifferent to the grace of
complexions, but children were often careless. But even among the
straitest there was a vague appreciation of beauty, as if it were a
delusion and a snare. And the Quaker child glanced at the shining hair,
the clear, pearly skin, the large lustrous eyes, the dainty hand, and
the frock that, though plain, had a certain air like Lord's Day attire,
and was not faded as an every-day garb would be. Then she glanced at
hers, where a tuck had been pulled out to lengthen it, and left a band
of much deeper blue, and the new half sleeves shamed the old tops. Her
heart was filled with sudden envy.
"Thou art not to live here always," she began. "It is only for a brief
while. And I am to stay years, until I am married. Mother's bedding and
linen hath been put in two parcels, one for Rachel, who will be married
first, as she is the eldest, and the other will be mine."
Primrose stared. Bella talked of marriage, but it seemed a great mystery
to Primrose. There was no one she liked but Cousin Andrew, but she liked
liberty better, she thought. Why should one want to get married? The
pretty young girls who came out to the farm had no husbands. Patty had
none and she was talking forever about the trouble they were, and
Mistress Janice and Madam Wetherill----
"But if he should be ill in bed and thou had to sit by him like Aunt
Lois----"
"Uncle is not ill. He hath a broken leg, and that will mend," was the
almost rebuking reply.
"I like the town better. I did not want to come nor to stay, and I am
glad I am not to live here always," Primrose said spiritedly. "I like my
Cousin Andrew----"
"How comes it that he is _thy_ cousin? My mother was own sister to Aunt
Lois, and so _we_ are cousins. Had thy mother any sisters?"
Primrose had not thought much about relationships. Now she was puzzled.
"Our names are alike," after some consideration. "And I was here the
first, a long while ago--last summer."
"But I have been here many times. And now I am to live here. Besides
thou--thou art hardly a Friend any more--I heard Chloe tell Rachel. Thou
art with the vain and frivolous world's people, and Andrew cannot like
thee."
That was too much. The dark eyes turned black with indignation and the
cheeks were scarlet.
"He does like me! Thou art a bad, wicked girl and tellest falsehoods!"
Primrose sprang up and the belligerents faced each other. Then Andrew
came up the path, and she flew out with such force that the milk
scattered on the ground, and he had to steady himself.
"Primrose----"
"She said thou didst not like me, and that I am no relation. What didst
thou say down in the orchard? And if no one likes me why can I not go
back to Aunt Wetherill?"
The usually gay voice was full of anger, just as he had heard it before.
Truly the child had a temper, for all her sweetness.
"Children--wait until I carry in the milk, and then I will come out and
hear thee."
Chloe took the pail and Penn followed with his.
Andrew came out, and looked at the girls with grave amusement. Primrose
was the most spirited. Really, was he being caught with the world's
snare, beauty?
"She said you--you did not like me." Primrose's lip quivered in an
appealing fashion, and her bosom swelled with renewed indignation.
"I did not say that," interposed Faith. "Not _just_ that. It was about
vain and frivolous world's people, and Chloe said she was not a Quaker
any more, and I--how canst thou like her, Cousin Andrew?"
"Children, there must be no quarreling. There are many families where
there are friends and members of various beliefs. And if we cannot love
one another, how shall we love God?"
Faith made a sudden dart to Andrew and caught his hand.
"Thou art not her cousin, truly," she exclaimed with triumph.
"As much as I am thine. Our mothers were sisters. Primrose's father and
mine were brothers. That is why our names are alike. And if you are good
I shall like you both, but I cannot like naughty children."
"You see!" Primrose said in high disdain to her crestfallen compeer. "I
was right. If Uncle James had not been my uncle I should not have had to
come here. And I should not care for Andrew."
There was something superb in the defiance visible in every feature and
the proud poise of the shoulders. A woman grown could hardly have done
better. Andrew Henry was curiously amused, and not a little puzzled as
to how he should restore peace between them. Faith's face had settled
into sullen lines.
"I shall love best whichever one is best and readiest in obedience and
kindliness," he said slowly.
"I do not care." Primrose turned away with the air of a small queen. "I
shall go back to town and you may have Faith and--and everybody." But
the voice which began so resolutely in her renunciation broke and ended
with a sob.
"Oh, my dear child!" Andrew's arm was about her and his lips pressed
tenderly to her forehead, and the relenting lines gave him an exquisite
thrill of pleasure he did not understand.
"What is all this discussion and high voices about?" demanded Lois
Henry. "I will not have the night disturbed by brawls. Both children
shall be whipped soundly and sent to bed."
"Nay, mother, listen." Andrew straightened himself up but still kept his
arm protectingly about Primrose, glad that the falling twilight did not
betray the scarlet heat in his face. "It came from a misunderstanding.
Faith did not know we were cousins by the father's side, as she and I
are on the mother's. It is hard for little ones to get all the lines of
relationship, and this being Faith's true home it seemed as if her right
must be best. But now they are at peace and will be pleasant enough on
the morrow. They did nothing worthy of punishment."
Faith was glad enough of the chance to escape, for she had already
smarted from the rod in the resolute hands of her aunt. She came toward
her now and said humbly:
"I did not understand, truly. I will be wiser and never again think it
untrue. And now--shall I go up to bed?"
Lois Henry was not satisfied, but she did not want to have open words
with her son before the children.
"Both go to bed at once," she said sharply. "Rachel?"
"I am here," said the elder girl quietly.
"Take Primrose upstairs and see that she is fixed for the night, though,
hereafter, she will wait upon herself. I like not to have children
brought up helpless."
"Go, my little dear," Andrew whispered caressingly. "To-morrow----"
Primrose was awed by Aunt Lois and followed with no further word or
sign.
Rachel found her nightdress and half envied the daintiness.
"What were thy words with Faith about," she inquired in a somewhat
peremptory tone.
"Thou art Faith's sister, ask her," was the resentful reply. She must
tell the truth if she spoke at all, and she did not want to run another
risk of being blamed. Andrew believed in her, that was the comfort she
held to her throbbing heart.
"Thou art a froward child and hast been overindulged. But, I warn thee,
Aunt Lois will train naughty girls sharply."
Rachel stood in a sort of expectant attitude and Primrose leaned against
the window.
"Get to bed," the elder said quickly.
"Go! go!" Primrose stamped her rosy bare foot on the floor. "I want you
away. I cannot say my prayer with you here."
"Thou needst prayer certainly. Among other things pray for a better
temper."
Rachel went slowly, and shut the door. Primrose threw herself on the bed
and gave way to a paroxysm of sobs and tears. Once she thought she would
creep downstairs and fly to the woods--anywhere to be out of reach of
them all. Oh, how could she endure it! Patty scolded sometimes, and
Madam Wetherill reproved and had on an occasion or two sent her out of
the room, but to be threatened with a whipping was too terrible!