LOVE AND TRUE LOVE.
"A very plain stiff Quaker downstairs, Primrose, who demands to see thee
alone. There is a sharp air about her. I think she must be one of those
the madam spoke of who are importuning about repairs and want rents for
nothing."
"To see me?" asked Primrose in surprise. "I have nothing to do with the
houses."
"She would not allow her business was with anyone else. She does not
look like one of the begging women with whom the city is overrun."
Primrose walked slowly down the wide staircase full of curiosity. Polly
Wharton asked for her sometimes, and Anabella Morris.
The visitor had on the close hat with the big round crown that but few
of the younger women wore, and rarely in black. Her gown was straight
and plain, the long sleeves coming down over her ungloved hands, and a
square of gray twilled silk crossed over her bosom. She did not stir
until Primrose was well into the room and then she turned.
"Oh, Rachel!" was the surprised exclamation.
Rachel Morgan stared at the vision before her. An unwonted envy stirred
her. It seemed as if Faith grew plainer every day, and this girl took
all the beauty!
"How are they all at the farm?" Primrose inquired with pretty
graciousness. "Is Uncle James quite well and strong?"
"How could one be well with such a great sorrow?" the visitor asked
sternly, fixing her eyes on Primrose, who shrank from the hard gaze, and
felt her heart beat in strange protest.
"But--Andrew is well--is here----"
"We heard a part of the army had been retained, and a neighbor hath seen
Andrew Henry in the attire of the sons of cruelty and worldliness, and
that bitter spirit toward the law that Mr. Penn besought his brethren
not to use. But no one seems to heed duty or obedience any more."
Primrose stood gazing as if the voice held her in a half-frightened
thrall.
"He hath been here, in this house?"
"Yes, yesterday," with some hesitation.
"And he will come again?"
"Oh, yes!" There was a confident ring in her voice that angered the
other.
"The world and its sins hath grown greatly upon him. I will venture to
say he feels more at home amid these gauds and giddy flowered damasks
and soft cushions and numerous things the elect would term idols of the
carnal sort," glancing around. "And the vain women who frequent houses
like these. I see thou art tricked out with much worldly vanity, and thy
father was one of the straitest Friends. How canst thou do it?"
Primrose opened her eyes wide at this tirade and shook back the curly,
glistening hair that she did not yet wear high on her head, for Madam
Wetherill hated to have her leave the cloisters of girlhood. And her
frock was white muslin, lengthened down a little and the piece covered
with an artful ruffle. There was a silver buckle at her belt, and on
each shoulder a knot of blue ribbon.
She hardly knew what to say, but presently she ventured--"Truly, Cousin
Rachel, I do not feel vain. I seldom think of my gowns."
"I am in no mood to discuss attire," as if Primrose had begun it. "I
come to thee on an urgent errand. Thou knowest, perhaps, that Andrew
hath angered his father beyond everything. Instead of heeding the
admonition to come out from the world and have no part in its
wickedness, he hath all winter been a go-between, encouraging rebellion
by carrying supplies to the camp at Valley Forge----"
"It was noble and kindly to take a great danger upon himself, to feed
sick and starving men, and to clothe their poor bodies. It surely made
one's heart bleed to hear of their sufferings. Nay, thou shalt not say
hard and bitter things against him!" cried Primrose spiritedly.
"The truth is wholesome, if it hath a bitter tang. We surmised that he
found encouragement in this house, and had beforetime listened to thy
childish and unreasoning folly. And he made himself a criminal in the
eyes of the law. His father's house was searched, and a man of Belial
abode with us to see if he would not come back. And the two fine animals
and the market wagon were carried off. If they had found him it would
have gone hard with him."
"But they did not," Primrose said triumphantly.
"Thou didst see him then?"
"Yes. And we knew--we saw him safely on the old Perkiomen road. Then
someone came the next day to inquire about him, so we know he had
eluded them. And now they have marched in and Philadelphia is free!"
"There were anxious days and nights about him until the word came that
he had joined the camp of rebels under Washington."
"But long ago he said if the country needed him he would go. And there
was Penn to take his place."
"Penn will be a good son to my uncle. But, after all, it is Andrew's
place. He is needed. His mother's heart is sore for him, and I can see
that Uncle James is not at rest. So I have put my pride in my pocket as
a sinful thing, and come to thee. Perhaps thou mayest have some
influence over him. Wilt thou try to persuade him?"
Primrose looked down on the floor as she laced her slim hands together.
"I will tell thee the whole story. He was to marry me. Aunt Lois wished
it and said I was a daughter after her own heart. I should have cared
for them as if I had been an own child. Uncle James had spoken to him
and he had promised to consider. At the meeting it had been talked of as
most proper and suitable. I had not much money, for our small farm hath
to be divided among three. But Uncle James thought a good wife better
than wealth."
Primrose stared in blank amazement. Had not Andrew said there was a
condition he could not fulfill? Was it this?
"I should have made him a good wife and roused him out of that
dreaminess he allowed to hang about him. And because it was to be so, I
plead with Uncle James until he relented. He hath promised me to take
him back----"
"But he will not leave the army until they have driven the English
across the seas again. And if thou couldst see him so straight and tall
and proud, holding up his head as he never did before! And all his heart
is in it."
"But the Lord made him a son and not a soldier. It is against our
belief. We have come out from the world, and are not to fight its sinful
battles. He hath a higher duty. Thou hast a smooth and persuasive
tongue, and if thou wouldst use it to restore peace between a sad father
and wayward son, and assure him he hath only to come back and fulfill
his promise and all will be peace--if thou carest to do a good work,
this will be one."
Rachel Morgan rose, and looked so steadily, so sternly at Primrose Henry
that she felt a shrinking all over her.
"Thou wilt do this," she said. "It seems as if thou hadst cared a little
for Aunt Lois and thy dead father's brother, and if thou hast any love
thou wilt try to restore peace."
"I will tell him what thou sayest," in a weak tone as if she was hardly
persuaded.
Rachel caught her hand, which was soft as a rose leaf, and wrung it in
hers until she could have cried with pain.
"Nay, not in that cold way. Thou hast the eyes and the tongue to move
whomever thou wilt, and he set strange store by thee. Men often yield to
a honeyed voice. Coax him, convince him it is his duty. Otherwise their
sorrow and, perhaps, their death may be on his hands, and neither wilt
thou be altogether free. That was my errand and the Lord gave me
strength to come, though women do not generally plead for their
lovers."
"I will try," Primrose said, much moved.
But she sat by herself after Rachel had left her, thinking the matter
over with a curious protest that she did not understand. Why should she
shrink from his marrying Rachel? She had seen many lovers through the
winter, and Anabella had poured into her ears a great deal of
foolish-sounding flattery, and delight on her part, that had caused
Primrose much wonder. And now her gay captain had followed the fortunes
of Sir Henry Clinton, and she was in despair, though he had promised to
return.
But she asked Madam Wetherill what she ought to do. The lady gave an odd
little smile.
"You must tell him, since you have consented. But it will not change his
intentions. His enlisting was no sudden notion, if he was forced into it
by circumstances. I wonder at Mistress Rachel making this appeal."
"Do you think he ought to marry her?" Primrose asked timidly.
"That is a question for him to answer, my child."
But Madam Wetherill knew if he had been in love with Rachel he would
have made some overtures himself.
Primrose studied the subject within her heart and was quite grave over
it. For two days they did not see him and on the third a messenger came
with a note.
The permission to join Washington had arrived suddenly and they were to
march at once. It was the present plan of the Commander in Chief to
invest New York and pen up the British there. "I would rather fight than
see the gayety of the last winter repeated," Andrew wrote. "And I am
much afraid our officers have not learned wisdom by the experience of
their enemies. For surely so much pleasure will demoralize them. And
though I am sorry not to see thee, partings are sad at the best, and I
have a strong belief that I shall return well and sound. Dear Primrose,
if so be thou could get word to my mother without too great an effort,
tell her I keep her in my heart day and night. She will know it was not
possible for me to accede to my father's request, pleasant as it might
have been for others. I send him a son's respect, whether he considers
me in the light of a son or no, and am sorry that at the last I should
have brought trouble and suspicion upon them. It is my present hope that
Penn will be a good son to them. I wish little Faith could have some of
thy joy, for I am afraid it is a dreary life for the child. Heaven be
watchful of thee, little Primrose."
It was true that several companies were not needed for the city's
protection, and were dispatched in the hasty mood that not infrequently
ruled General Arnold.
And now new defenses were erected for the city, and there was a general
clearing up. The barricade around the old Treaty Elm was taken down, the
squares were freed from rubbish and the grass restored, the houses
repaired and new ones planned. True, landlords groaned about unpaid
rents, and money-lenders almost wept over the sums the British had
despoiled them of. The country estates were in a sad plight, many of
them, but others had escaped.
Madam Wetherill thanked Heaven that it was no worse with her. Mount
Pleasant was a scene of great gayety during the summer, and the Arnolds
and the Shippens held grand court, almost like royalty. She had much to
do minding her estate and looking out for some of her southern
interests, and took less heed to gay parties.
Twice a year the trustees met to consider the estate of Mistress
Primrose Henry. Just before this Madam Wetherill took her charge over to
the old Quaker farm, that was so peaceful and thrifty one would hardly
dream there had been war in the land. Primrose had sent a message to
Rachel Morgan to explain why she had not undertaken her trust.
Aunt Lois was rather feeble, but Rachel seemed to carry the house on her
shoulders, and was noticeably sharp with the men and Chloe, who was
growing old as well as her mistress. Certainly she looked after all
things in a thrifty fashion that had already brought a crease between
her eyes, young as she was.
Faith was thin and fearful-looking, as if she expected some chiding in
nearly everything, and it rarely missed coming. For Rachel had been
sorely disappointed in her marriage plans, and liked to make others
suffer for her unhappiness.
Primrose was like a butterfly in the plain old house, and seemed to make
a swift dazzle. Aunt Lois warmed curiously toward her, feeling as if the
sun was shining after a spell of lowering weather.
She rose from her chair and laid aside her knitting.
"Thee used to love the chickens so much," she said gently. "We have some
pretty ones. While thy aunt talks business let us get out and see them.
I sit in doors so much thinking, and though I try not to question the
will of Providence, life does not seem quite as it used. It may be that
I am getting old. Poor mother used to sit under the tree yonder, but
when it comes my time, Faith will be too womanly and too busy to look
after me, and perhaps married."
They walked down the well-trodden path. There were chicken mothers in
little coops, and yellow, downy balls, others with tiny wings and
patches of feathers here and there.
"Thou didst see Andrew before he went away?"
The mother's eyes had a soft, wistful, far-off look.
"Yes. And a lovely letter that I have read again and again. Oh, why did
I not bring it--but indeed I did not know"--pausing in a tone that
indicated what might be meant.
"A mother is a mother always. A father may feel hard when his plans are
traversed. Tell me about my son; for I cannot shut my heart upon him."
"He makes a handsome soldier and a good one. He will have a large heart
and a wise head."
"But a soldier! And to kill his fellow-creatures. We are to live in
peace."
"But I was to say when I could, that he kept thee in his heart day and
night, and that he would never forget thee. Dear Aunt Lois, he is brave
and good and tender of soul, and I know God loves him for his work to
the poor and needy last winter."
"I have wondered many times how he escaped. We only knew that he was
safe."
"Someone betrayed him. He had taken great care. Wilt thou hear how he
left the town?"
"Dost thou know?" raising her soft eyes.
Primrose told gleefully how they had disguised him and seen him safe on
the road where he was not likely to meet the soldiery.
"And thou didst do this for him, dear child!"
She took the soft hands in hers, that were soft again now that she did
little coarse labor.
"It was not much to do, surely. And it was rare fun when the guards
passed us."
"I owe much to thee and Madam Wetherill. And did he speak of any
return?"
"Nay, his is a soldier's life."
"I sometimes think it is not wisdom to plan children's lives. Perhaps if
we had let him be," and she gave a gentle sigh. "But we had hopes he
would fancy Rachel, and she somehow had set her heart upon it. He seemed
not inclined to marry, and so we should have waited until the spirit
guided him. Child, I thank thee for thy care and interest in him. We
should have been glad if thou couldst have kept thy father's faith and
been content to stay here, but I can see thou didst need a larger life.
Perhaps we narrow ours too much. It may not always be the Lord's will as
we think. I have strange ideas as I sit and knit or sew. And I remember
that good Mr. Penn and his wife took much pleasure of a kind we hardly
approve of now. It is hard to tell which is right."
"Dear Aunt Lois, whatever leads people to be sweet and joyful and
thankful and kind to all who suffer cannot be far wrong. And were there
no good men before the time of Mr. Fox and Mr. Penn?"
"Thou wert always finding prettiness of speech and ways that have a
charm in them. And if thou shouldst send word to Andrew at any time,
tell him his mother's heart is tender towards him and that no one can
fill his place. Thou hast given me much joy. But I can see thou art not
fitted for the grave life here, and if our ancestors crossed the sea
that they might have liberty of belief, why should we not grant it to
others?"
James Henry no longer insisted upon what he called his rights in his
brother's child. She was too gay and worldly for his taste, which, where
women were concerned, could have been comprised in the old advice "To
avoid Papishers and learn to knit." And when he looked on the industry
and thrift of Rachel his heart hardened toward his son for his
blindness.
For Primrose went steadily now to Christ Church, but England would not
send over a bishop while people were so contumacious, and so some rites
were held in abeyance.
But she was very happy and growing tall rapidly, and Friend Henry turned
her over altogether to Madam Wetherill, who after all was not forgotten
by the fashionables, even if they did run after the Arnolds.
And in the autumn there were some changes, although the Continentals had
not swept their enemies across the sea. Society Hill put on a brisk
aspect, and gardens opened again where they sold beer and cakes, and
young people chatted merrily, while older people gossiped. There were
shops trying to turn out much-needed goods that gave the town an aspect
of industry. Indeed employment was provided for the poor classes in
putting streets in order. All manner of homespun cloth was made. Even
Mrs. Washington had ordered that her spinning wheels at Mount Vernon
should fly as briskly as if she were there, and sixteen were kept going
all the time.
Franklin and John Adams were in France cementing the alliance that was
so slow in doing its promised work. At home, political leaders were
quarreling fiercely among themselves. Joseph Reed and Arnold were at
swords' points. A charge of dishonesty and malpractice in office was
preferred against Arnold before the Continental Congress, but, though
convicted, he was sentenced to a reprimand only. He had been a brave
soldier, and Washington, with a heart full of anxiety for other
undertakings, unfortunately dealt leniently with him, but it made no
appeal to better feelings or conduct, for he began almost at once his
treasonable practices with the British, that were to bring about a
lasting shame.
There were other troubles as well. The Quakers could not and would not
serve in the army nor pay taxes for its support. Franklin had known how
to gain by diplomacy what they would not openly concede, but they were
unpopular with those in power, and the mob openly rejoiced when goods
were levied upon. Indeed many of the poorer and plainer brethren had
little sympathy when such articles as "a looking glass in wide gilt and
mahogany frame, with ornamental corners" and "handsome walnut chairs
deeply carven and with silken cushions" and "mahogany tea table with
carved legs and crow feet" were sold for a quarter of their value. It
shows that many of the Friends were not stinted in their household
appointments, and must indeed have had sturdy consciences to part with
their cherished belongings rather than pay away a little money in what
was considered an unjust cause.
New York was full of gayety and dissipation under the British, as
Philadelphia had been. And Primrose was sent for by her brother, who was
now Colonel Nevitt and in a pleasant position.
"There is much to see and enjoy," he wrote. "And there are fine manners
and customs that will fit you for London when we go. For it is most
certain, by the looks of things, that the rebellion will soon be
brought to an end. The winter in Philadelphia was a great mistake,
though pleasant enough to me. And you must be now a pretty young woman
that I should be proud to have. If Madam Wetherill feels that she is not
young enough for gayety, I have some friends here who will be glad to
take charge of a fair young girl, and I shall be most happy with my
charming sister. There are parties coming almost every week, and I can
find safe escort. Do not disappoint me."
"What wilt thou do?" asked Madam Wetherill. "Thou art no longer a little
girl, Primrose, though it grieves me to say it. Patty scolds about
lengthening thy gowns all the time, and Anabella is sure I will keep
thee an old maid. Though between two stools she is like to come to the
floor for aught I see. Her British lover never so much as wrote her a
line, and young Matthews, that she made quite certain of, hath married
Kitty Strong. She need not worry about thee, since thou hast nearly two
years' grace behind her. But her mother was so foolishly hasty to have
her married."
"But I want to stay a little girl," cried Primrose eagerly. "I hate a
big hoop and a monstrous topknot that pulls my hair, and a bunch of
feathers that makes one look like an Indian sachem."
She made such a pretty pouting mouth, like a rose half-blown, that madam
laughed.
"And then one can run around with Patty and tease the boys who sell pink
calamus buds, and buy 'Peppery pot, smoking hot.'" She was such a good
mimic it sounded exactly like the venders.
"I am afraid I have spoiled thee. But it is thy brother whom we must
consider. He may have some rights."
"What rights, indeed, to a rebel maiden who would hate the sight of so
many red coats together?"
"Still thou dost love him a little. Surely he is thy nearest kin."
"I can never think whether I love him dearly or only a little. When I
pull a daisy out it says only a little. And when I blew a puffy
dandelion out to tell me where my true love dwelt, it went south instead
of north."
"But the great city. I was there once, years ago. It hath many queer
things and reminders of the old Dutch people who settled it. And it has
a beautiful river and an island south of it, and a short way out to the
ocean."
"As if we did not have our fine and noble Delaware that runs on and up
past the Jerseys to the State of New York. And there is our Schuylkill
with its peaceful shores and green and flowery banks, now that the
British are away, and our beautiful Wissahickon. Nay, I want nothing
beyond my own home town, and no one but you and the friends that come
here. I will write to Phil and tell him that neither his tongue nor his
pen can charm me. And he never says 'thou' latterly."
"But the young people here leave it off, I notice. And thou must not
write saucily."
Primrose laughed and tossed her golden head.
She wrote to her brother and put in some rhymes, a fashion quite
affected then, for many of the young ladies wrote sentimental and
would-be satiric verses. Hannah Griffiths, who was cousin to Deborah
Logan, had satirized the famous Mischianza, and there were songs for
various occasions such as birthdays and weddings.
Primrose wrote also to Andrew Henry. It was difficult to get letters
from the Federal soldiers unless some messenger came direct, but she
guessed how much pleasure the bit of news would be to him. She rode out
to the farm occasionally and took a message from Aunt Lois to Andrew.
Uncle James was growing quite deaf and irritable in temper, but Aunt
Lois softened perceptibly and was always glad to see Primrose.
Rachel had a new vexation that did not improve her temper. Chloe
grumbled at the sharpness, but she was too old to think of another home.
Faith was now a tall, thin girl, looking careworn and sallow.
"I must walk a little with thee even if I should get beaten for it
afterward," she said in one of the visits, as she intercepted Primrose
and Patty at the group of great sycamores that shut off the view of the
road. "For I feel sometimes as if the strings of my heart would burst
when there is no one to talk to but old Chloe, and Rachel watches us as
a cat does a mouse."
"She would not beat thee, surely." Primrose's face was one indignant
flame.
"She did when I was smaller, until one day Aunt Lois interfered. Now she
slaps, and her hand is hard as a board; or she boxes my ears until bells
ring in them. I know not what made her so cross at first, except that
she tried to be sweet and pleasant to Andrew, and when he was gone all
was different. Now Penn walks home from meeting with Clarissa Lane and
finds excuses for going over there. But Rachel says he is needed here on
the farm since uncle cannot work as he used, and that he shall neither
go away to marry, nor bring a wife home here. They had a bitter quarrel
one day. I was gathering sassafras and birch buds for her and they did
not know I was there. And Rachel said if he married Clarissa, she would
persuade uncle not to leave him any part of the farm. Ought not the farm
belong to Andrew?"
Primrose shook her head doubtfully.
"If I were a man I would run away and fight too. I would find Andrew and
march and fight beside him. Oh, Primrose, thou canst never know how good
and sweet he was to me and what wise counsel he gave. And now I am so
wretched!"
"Poor girl, poor Faith!" Primrose cried, deeply moved. "If you could
come into town----"
"I can go nowhere, she says, until I am of age; if I did, that the
constable could bring me back, or I could be put in jail. And that if I
do not please her I shall have none of Uncle James' money."
"It is not honest to count on the money, and James Henry may live many
years!" exclaimed Patty sharply.
"If I had it I should give it back to Andrew. I feel as if we had
crowded him out of his home. No one speaks of him but Aunt Lois and old
Chloe, and Rachel frowns at her. Oh, if I dared come to thee, I would be
a servant, or anything! Oh, Primrose, God hast set thee in a blessed
garden! Bend over and kiss me. And come again. It is like a bit of
heaven to see thee."
Then Faith vanished, and the tears ran down the pink cheeks of the
child.
"Oh, what can we do?" she sobbed.
"Nothing, dear," returned Patty, much moved, and feeling that some
comfort was needed, even if it was only the sound of a human voice.
"Friend Rachel hath grown hard through disappointment. Grace does not
always wrap itself in a plain garb, and a red rose is sweet and pretty
in its redness. There is much selfishness in the world under all colors,
methinks, and when it is gray; it grows grayer by the wearing."