FATE TO THE FORE.
They were early astir at the farm. Rachel in going downstairs called
Primrose and Faith. The latter rubbed her sleepy eyes--it was always so
hard to get up, but there were many things to do. Grandmother was the
only one allowed to sleep in quiet, and sometimes she would lie as late
as nine o'clock, to the great relief of everyone.
"Come, thou sluggard!" and the child's shoulder was roughly shaken.
"This is twice I have called thee, and what will happen a third time I
cannot undertake to say."
"Patty!" Primrose opened her eyes and then gave a little shriek of
affright. "Oh, where am I?"
She had cried herself to sleep and forgotten all about her prayer.
"I am not Patty, and thou wilt find no servant here to wait upon thee.
We are not fine Arch Street people. Come, if thou dost want any
breakfast."
Slowly memory returned to Primrose. She leaned out of the little window.
Oh, what joyous sound was that! She smiled as the birds caroled in the
trees and followed them with her soft, sweet voice that could not reach
the high notes. Then she began to dress, eager to be out of the small
room that would have seemed a prison to her if she had known anything
about a prison. But the wonderful melody filled her soul and lifted her
up to the very blue heavens. So she loitered sadly about her dressing,
and when she came down the table had been cleared away.
Chloe had received instructions to give her a bite out in the kitchen
presently, but with a sense of injustice, growing stronger every moment,
she almost flew from the house. Rachel was working butter in the milk
room and Faith weeding in the garden. Aunt Lois had had a very disturbed
night and was suffering with a severe headache. Her husband's fever had
abated toward morning, and now he had fallen into a quiet sleep.
Primrose made her way to the old orchard. Ah, how enchantingly the birds
sang! Then there was a long, melodious whistle that she tried to imitate
and failed, and laughed gleefully at her non-success. Where was the old
tree blown almost over by wind and storm that she used to run up, and
fancy herself a squirrel? Ah, here it was! bent over so much more that
its branches touched the ground. She walked up the trunk, holding out
both arms to keep her balance, and then sitting down where three
branches crossed and made a seat. The apples were hard and sour, she
remembered, regular winter apples. She rocked to and fro, singing with
the birds and watching the white boats go sailing across the sky. She
laughed in her lightness of heart, though there was no malice in it. She
did not even give the household a thought.
And then she was suddenly hungry. She sighed a little. Were there any
more ripe, sweet apples, she wondered! Oh, how long would she have to
stay at Uncle Henry's? It was early July now, six months. What a long,
long while as she counted them up! And there would be winter when she
could not run out of doors, and no lessons, no books to pore over, no
music, no great parlor full of strange things that she never tired of
inspecting, no pretty ladies in silk and satin gowns, chattering and
laughing.
What with the soft wind and the swaying motion she began to feel sleepy
again. She crawled down and looked for the tree they had found
yesterday. Alas! its branches were too high for her conquest. She threw
herself down on the grass and leaned against the trunk, and in five
minutes was soundly asleep.
Rachel had gone about her duties in a quiet, rather resentful manner.
Once Chloe had asked about the child.
"I have called her twice," was the brief answer.
Then she heard grandmother stirring and went up to dress her and gave
her some breakfast. She would not even look in the small chamber where
she supposed Primrose was lazily sleeping. Afterward she called in
Faith, who washed her hands and changed her frock, as the dew and dirt
had made it unsightly.
"If thou wouldst only be careful and tuck it up around thy knees," said
Rachel in a fretted tone. "There is no sense in getting so draggled, and
it makes overmuch washing."
"Shall I take the towels out to hem?" asked Faith.
"Yes. Thee should get them done this morning. Aunt Lois spoke of thy
dilatoriness."
Faith longed to ask about the newcomer. It was sinful indulgence for her
to be lying abed. And why was she not sent to weed in the garden or put
at other unpleasant work?
Rachel heard the rap on the tin cup that answered the purpose of a bell
to summon one. Aunt Lois was still in her short bedgown and nightcap.
"Thou must wait upon thy uncle this morning," she began feebly. "I have
tried, but I cannot get about. There is a dizziness in my head every
time I stir, and strange pains go shooting about me. It is an ill time
to be laid by with the summer work pressing, and two people needing
constant care."
She looked very feeble, and there was an unwholesome red spot upon each
cheek. Her usually calm and steady voice was tremulous.
"But I feel better. The fever is gone," said Uncle James. "There will be
only two weeks more and then I can begin to get about. When there is no
head matters go loosely enough."
"But I am sure Andrew is capable. He hath been trained under thine own
eye. And Penn is steady and trusty."
"But a dozen young things cannot supply the master's place," he returned
testily. "And one almost feels as if the evil one hath gotten in his
handiwork as he did on Job."
Lois sighed. Rachel washed her uncle's face and hands and brought him
some breakfast.
"Shall I not bring thee some, too?"
"Nay, the thought goes against me. I will have some boneset tea steeped.
And presently I will get out to the kitchen. Perhaps I shall mend by
stirring about."
Grandmother sat under the tree or wandered about, babbling of old times
and asking questions that she forgot the next moment. There was a ham
boiling in the great kettle over the kitchen fire, and a big basket of
vegetables for the dinner. There were two neighboring men working, who
were to have their midday meal.
James Henry would have enjoyed Job's disputatious friends. There were
several knotty points in doctrine that he had gone over while lying
here, and he longed to argue them with someone. The days were very long
and tedious to him, for he had never been ill a whole week in his life.
Lois crept out to the living room, then to the great shady doorstep. How
fine and fresh and reviving the waft of summer air, with its breath of
new-mown hay, was to her fevered brow.
"Where is the child?" she asked.
"I called her twice. What with packing the butter and various duties she
hath quite gone out of my mind. Surely she sleeps like the young man in
the Apostles' time."
"Go summon her again. She must be broken of such an evil habit."
Rachel primed herself for some well-deserved severity. There was no one
in the room. She searched the closet, the other rooms, then the "tuck
place" as it was called, and went through Chloe's room, over the
kitchen.
"She is not anywhere to be seen. Chloe, hast thou observed her stealing
out?"
"Nay," and the colored servitor shook her head.
"Strange where she can be."
"The child was tractable and well trained through the past summer, but
she hath grown lawless and saucy. When she comes I shall give her a good
switching, if I am able. I will not have these mischievous pranks," said
Aunt Lois feebly.
"She deserves it," rejoined Rachel with unwonted zest. She longed to see
the child conquered.
Still Primrose did not appear. Lois Henry took her herb tea, and after
a severe fit of nausea felt somewhat relieved, but very weak and shaky.
She was just thinking of retiring when Andrew came across the field. But
he was alone.
"Hast thou seen aught of that willful child?" she inquired.
"Primrose? No." He looked from one to the other. "What hast thou been
doing with her?"
Rachel sullenly recapitulated the morning's experience.
"And she had no breakfast? Where can she have gone? Surely she hath not
thought to find her way to Wetherill farm! We should not have insisted
upon her coming at this time. Mother, you look very ill," and the kindly
face was full of solicitude.
"I am, my son. And it was not my will to have her, but your father's
mind was set upon it."
"And then she is so different," began Rachel. "What if we had allowed
Faith in such tantrums!"
"She needs a sharp hand to cure her evil temper."
"Mother," said Andrew with a sense of the injustice, and a rising
tenderness in his heart for Primrose, "we must consider. She is not to
have our lives, nor to be brought up in our way. She hath her own
fortune, and her mother was a lady----"
"There are no ladies, but all are women in the sight of God. And as for
such foolish, sinful lives as the townfolk lead, playing cards and
dancing, and all manner of frivolous conversation, it were a mercy to
snatch one from the burning. She was a nice little child last year. I
must reduce her to obedience again, and some sense of a useful, godly
life."
"To have thy training upset by the next hand! It is neither wise nor
wholesome for the child, and she will come to have ill will towards us.
I can remember how bright and cheerful and easily pleased her mother
was----"
"She was never grounded in the faith. She had a worldly and carnal love
for Philemon Henry, and it was but lip service. If he had lived----"
Lois Henry had interrupted with an energetic protest in her voice, but
now she leaned her head on the door post and looked as if she might
collapse utterly.
"Mother, thou art too ill to be sitting up. Let me help thee to bed, and
then I must go look for the child."
He lifted her in his strong young arms and, carrying her through, laid
her on the bed beside her husband.
"I am very ill," she moaned, and indeed she looked so. All her strength
seemed to have gone out of her.
"I heard high words about the child. Hath she proved refractory? Madam
Wetherill and the houseful of servants have no doubt spoiled her. It is
God's mercy that there may be seasons of bringing her back to reasonable
life."
"Do not trouble about the little girl. To-day I think the doctor will be
here to examine thy leg, and I am sure my mother needs him. I am afraid
it is a grave matter."
"My poor wife! And I am a helpless burden on thee! I am afraid I have
demanded too much."
"The Lord will care for us," she made answer brokenly.
After giving some charges to Rachel, Andrew walked down the path that
led to the road. Was Primrose afraid of punishment, and had Rachel said
more to her than she was willing to own? This was no place for her,
Andrew said to himself manfully. And if his mother was to be ill----
He changed his steps and went to the barn. Would Rover remember the
little girl of last summer? He raised the clumsy wooden latch.
"Come, Rover," he said cheerily. "Come, we must go and find Primrose. I
wonder if thou hast forgotten her?"
Rover sprang out and made a wide, frolicsome detour. Then he came back
to his master and listened attentively, looked puzzled, and started off
again down the road, but returned with a sort of dissatisfaction in his
big brown eyes.
"The orchard, perhaps. We might look there first. She was such a
venturesome, climbing little thing last year."
Rover ran about snuffling, and started off at a rapid rate, giving a
series of short, exultant barks as he bounded to his master.
"Good Rover!" patting the shaggy creature, who sprang up to his shoulder
in joy.
Primrose was still asleep. The winds had kissed with fragrant touches,
the birds had sung to her, the bees had crooned, and the early summer
insects ventured upon faint chirps, as if they hardly knew whether they
might be allowed to mar the radiant summer day. How divinely beautiful
it was!
Her head had fallen on her shoulder and the old tree rose gray and
protecting. The long fringe of lashes swept her cheek, her hair was
tumbled about in shining rings, her dewy lips slightly apart, almost as
if she smiled.
She had been worn out with her crying last night, but now was rested
and fresh. The dog's bark roused her, and she opened her eyes.
"Oh, Andrew! Where have I been? Why----"
"Little runaway!" but his tone was tender, his eyes soft and shining.
"Oh, Andrew!" she exclaimed again. Then she clasped her arms about his
body with a kind of vehemence and buried her face for a moment. "Take me
back, won't you? I can't stay here. I can't! I don't like anyone. Even
Aunt Lois is cross and Rachel hates me."
"Oh, no, no! But thou shalt go back. This is no real home for thee."
"Oh, come, too!" she cried eagerly. "There is a great farm, and Madam
Wetherill will be glad to have thee."
"Nay, my father is ill and I could not leave him. And there is so much
work to do. But I will see thee now and then to freshen thy memory."
"I should not be likely to forget thee."
"Didst thou have any breakfast?"
"No, I didn't. I was very sleepy when Rachel called. I think I must have
run straight to the land of Nod again," laughingly. "And when I came
down the table was cleared. There was someone in the kitchen, but I was
afraid. I do not know why it is," and her plaintive voice touched him,
"only now I am afraid of everybody--oh, no! not afraid of you, for I
like you so much. And then I wanted to run away, but I did not know how
to go. I climbed the crooked apple tree and swung to and fro until I was
sleepy and afraid I might fall out. Then I came down here. Oh, can I go
back? Truly, truly?"
"Truly." Yet he said it with a pang. How sweet and dainty she was! He
would not have used the words, they were strange to him, but they sent a
thrill through his body, as music sometimes does.
"Come, dinner will be ready."
"Will anyone scold me?" fearfully.
"No one shall scold thee."
They walked together to the house. Rachel was just blowing the horn.
Faith looked curiously at her and rather exulted in the punishment she
would get.
Andrew went straight to the sick room.
"I am afraid thy mother is ill beyond the power of herb teas," said
James Henry. "What a godsend that we should have Rachel! And oh, Heaven
grant that it may not be as it was before! the strong and helpful one
taken, and the helpless left."
Lois Henry was deeply flushed now and lay with her eyes half open,
muttering to herself.
"Mother?" he said, but she did not notice him.
He went out to dinner in a thoughtful mood, but he had no appetite.
Primrose was hungry enough, but looked up smilingly now and then. Dr.
Reed came in earlier than his wont and accepted the invitation to dine,
asking questions occasionally as to how Friend Lois had been last week,
and if she had shown any tendency to be flurried.
"She hath not been quite herself, now that I come to recall it,"
answered Rachel, "and complaining of being tired and not sleeping well.
Oh, I hope----" She was about to add, "it will not be with her as it was
with my poor mother," but tears stopped her.
It was a fever sure enough. It would be better to have her in a separate
chamber, and if some old nurse would come in. "There was Mistress
Fanshaw, only come home last week."
"I will go for her," responded Andrew.
"I shall be in on the second day," the doctor announced, as he mounted
his horse and settled his saddlebags.
"A sad thing for all of us." Rachel wiped her eyes with the end of her
stout linen apron.
"I shall take Primrose back to Wetherill farm."
"Oh, that will indeed be a relief. She and Faith, I foresee, would not
get along together, and I could not manage such a froward child."
Andrew made no reply. There was a little more work devolving upon him,
and he deputed the rest of the day's management to Penn.
He had fortified himself with many arguments as to why Primrose should
return to her great aunt, but to his surprise, his father assented at
once. He was much worried about his wife, who had never been ill before.
Primrose was glad with a great delight. She sat under the tree with
Faith and roused the child's envy with accounts of her life in town, and
the time for pleasure.
"But dost thou not sew or knit?"
"Nay, except lacework and hemstitching, but I shall as I grow older.
There is Patty to sew, and as for stockings, I do not know how they
come, for no one knits them, and they are fine and nice, with gay clocks
in them, and oftentimes silken. I like the pretty things. But all
Friends are not so plain. Some come to us with silken petticoats and
such gay, pretty aprons, just like a garden bed."
Faith sighed. And now she wished Primrose might say, there was such
witchery in her words.
Madam Wetherill was much surprised to have Primrose return so soon, but
not sorry, she frankly admitted. She was greatly concerned about Friend
Henry and hoped the fever would not be over troublesome.
"Good-by, little one," Andrew said, holding her hand. "I hope thou wilt
be very happy; and I shall come to hear how it fares with thee."
Did she pull the stalwart figure down with her small hands? He bent over
and kissed her and then blushed like a girl.
"Fie, Primrose! Thou art a little coquette, and learning thy lesson
young!"
"But I like him very much," she replied with brave seriousness.
"Only--it's pleasanter to live with thee," and she hid her face in Madam
Wetherill's gown.