THE MIDNIGHT TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY.
Old Philadelphia had fallen into her midnight nap. Since Howe's time
there had been a more decorous rule, and the taverns closed early. There
were no roystering soldiers flinging their money about and singing songs
in King George's honor, or ribald squibs about the rebels, and braggart
rhymes as to what they would do with them by and by. Everything, this
October night, was soft and silent. Even party people had gone home long
ago, and heard the watchman sing out, "Twelve o'clock and all is well!"
Only the stars were keeping watch, and the winds made now and then a
rustle.
Someone rode into the town tired and exhausted, but joyful, and with
joyful news. The German watchman, who caught it first, went on his
rounds with, "Past two o'clock and Lord Cornwallis is taken."
He came down Arch Street. Madam Wetherill had been rather wakeful. What
was it? She threw up the window and the sonorous voice sang out again,
"Past two o'clock and Lord Cornwallis is taken!"
"Oh, what is it, madam?" cried Patty, coming in in her nightgown and
cap.
"It is enough to make one faint with joy! Patty, wake Joe at once and
send him down the street. It can't be true!"
"But what is it?" in alarm.
"If I was not dreaming it is that Lord Cornwallis is taken. But I am
afraid. Patty, it is a great victory for our side. Run quick!"
Joe, rolled up in his warm blanket, had to be thumped soundly before he
would wake.
"Put on your clothes this instant," and Patty stood over him, giving him
a cuff on one ear, then on the other to balance him. "Run down the
street, and if you don't find Lord Cornwallis taken don't pretend to
show your face here again in this good rebel household. For now we dare
sail under true colors!"
But others had heard. In early morning before the day was awake there
was such a stir that the old town scarcely knew itself. One cried to
another. There were a thousand doubts and fears until the messenger was
found, quite gone with fatigue, on a bench at a tavern, with a great
crowd around him.
"Yes," he said, "on the nineteenth, four days ago. They were between the
devil and the deep sea. They tried to escape on the York River, but a
storm set in and they were driven back. And there was the French
squadron to swallow them up, and the French and American troops posted
about in a big half circle! 'Twas a splendid sight as one would wish to
see! And there was nothing but surrender, or they would all have been
cut to pieces. And such a sight when my lord sent General O'Hara with
his sword and the message, not having courage to come himself. Then we
were hustled off with the news. There's the posts of Yorktown and
Gloucester and seven thousand or so soldiers, and stores and arms and
colors and seamen and ships. By the Lord Harry! we're set up for life!
And now let me eat and drink in peace. By night there'll be someone else
to tell his story."
Surely never had there been such an early rising. Neighbors and friends
wrung each other's hands in great joy and talked in broken sentences,
though there were some Tories who said the thing was simply impossible,
and rested in serene satisfaction.
Primrose had roused, and was so wild with joy that there could be no
thought of a second nap. And after breakfast she was crazy to go over to
Walnut Street to Polly Wharton's.
The servant sent her into the small anteroom, for she wasn't quite sure
Mistress Polly was in. And there, in a long easy-chair Dr. Rush had
planned and a skilled carpenter made, that could be lowered into a bed
at will, reclined a pale young fellow with a mop of chestnut hair, and
temples that were full of blue veins, as well as the long, thin hands.
"Oh--it is Mistress Primrose Henry--but I was hardly sure! You are so
tall, and you were such a little girl. Oh, do you remember when I ran
over you on the Schuylkill and quarreled with your brother and wanted to
fight a duel? I can just see how you looked as you lay there in his
arms, pale as death, with your pretty yellow hair floating about. Well,
I had a monstrous bad hour, I assure you. And you were such a gay, saucy
little rebel, and so full of enthusiasm! By George! I believe you sent
us all to war. And now this glorious news, and Andrew Henry in the midst
of it all! It makes a fellow mad, and red-hot all over longing to be
there! Was there ever anything so splendid! But, I beg your pardon! Will
you not be seated? Polly went out with father, but will soon be back."
The servant brought the same message. Mrs. Wharton would be down as soon
as the children were off to school.
"Tell her not to hurry," said the audacious young man. "It is such a
treat to have company all to myself. And to-day is my first coming
downstairs. Father has been so afraid all along lest I should do
something that would undo all the good doctor's work. Between him and
Andrew they have saved my leg, and I shan't be lame. I'll come and dance
at your birthday party. It is in the spring, isn't it, and that is why
you were named Primrose?"
"I don't know for certain," and the girl smiled; "my mother was fond of
flowers."
"And it's the prettiest name under the sun." He wanted to say that it
belonged to the prettiest girl under the sun, but he did not quite dare.
For he thought this blessed October morning she was the loveliest vision
he had ever beheld.
"Oh, won't you take off your hat and that big cape, for Polly _will_ be
in soon, and I have such a heap of things to tell you. Polly said she
would ask you to come around as soon as I was allowed downstairs, and
Dr. Rush said I must wait until I could walk well. Wasn't it grand to
see Andrew in his new uniform? We've all gone in rags and patches,
and--well, when we're old fellows, we shall all be proud enough that we
fought for the country. I want to live to be a full hundred, if the
world stands so long. When have you heard from your brother?"
The young girl's face was scarlet. "Not since--since he went to New
York."
"Wasn't it queer we should all have had a hand in the fight, and Andrew
never got scratched?"
"And you saved them both! Andrew told me! Oh, I can't give you thanks
enough! My brother is very dear to me if he is on the wrong side, and I
have been angry with him."
He always remembered with a mysterious sort of gladness that she did not
say Andrew was dear to her. Of course he was, but he would rather not
have it set in words.
"Yes--that we should meet just that way! He and I had quarreled, and he
and Andrew were cousins, whose duty it was to disable each other, at
least, though the encounter was so sudden that at the first moment I
think they did not know each other. I gave a push to Andrew and that
deflected his aim, for somehow I did not want him to kill Nevitt. And
before he could recover, though the next shot was aimed at me, someone
had struck your brother in the shoulder, and he fell. It was all done in
a moment, but there are so many near escapes. He was pretty badly hurt,
but Andrew managed that he should have the best of care. And they gained
nothing by their daring and we made a lot of prisoners. Before it was
over I was wounded, and that has put an end to my fun. But I am glad
Andrew was in at this great victory."
Primrose's eyes were shining with a kind of radiant joy. And yet, down
deep in her heart, there was a pang for her brother. Sometimes she was
vexed that he had not cared enough to write.
"But it seems--incredible!"
"It is a sort of miracle of foresight. The man at the head of it all is
wise and far-sighted and not easily discouraged. And Lady Washington, as
the men call her, is not afraid to follow the camp and speak a word of
cheer to the soldiers. We have been through many a hard time, some of
the others much more than I. But, if I could have chosen, I'd rather
been on the march and in the fight than lying here."
Primrose could not doubt it. A faint color had warmed up the face and
it looked less thin, and the eyes were full of enthusiasm. Something in
their glance made hers droop and an unexpected glow steal up in her
face.
"Andrew said he was your soldier, that you were so full of loyalty and
duty it inspired him. And don't you remember that you talked to me as
well? I don't see why I shouldn't be your soldier."
"Why--yes. You are." Then she blushed ever so much more deeply.
"And how brave you were that day when you assisted him to escape! Oh,
you can't think how delightful it was to talk of you when we were cold
and hungry and so far away from home! And all the shrewdness of Madam
Wetherill! How she won British gold and sent it or its equivalent out to
Valley Forge! Next summer we ought to make a picnic out there, and climb
up Mount Pleasant and go down Mount Misery with jest and laughter."
There was a whirl and a gentle stamping of some light feet on the
bearskin rug in the hall.
"Oh, Primrose! It is the most glorious morning the world ever saw! And
'tis a delight to see you here. It is Allin's first day downstairs, and
he thinks he has been defrauded, selfish fellow! He insists I shall tell
him everywhere I go and everybody I see, and, when I get it all related
minutely, he sighs like a wheezy bellows and thinks I have all the fun.
And just now I want to dance and shout, don't you, Primrose? Such news
stirs one from finger tips to toes."
"Get up and dance, then. I'll whistle a gay Irish jig, such as the men
used in Howe's time at the King of Prussia Inn, while their betters were
footing it to good British music. Think of the solemn drumbeat there
will be at Yorktown! No gay Mischianza there! What a march it will be to
the haughty prisoners!"
They all laughed at the idea of dancing, and then they talked until
Primrose said she must go home, but Polly would send a messenger to say
that she meant to keep her to dinner, and then they would take a nice
walk along Chestnut Street, and go to Market Street and see the new,
homespun goods Mr. Whitesides had in his store.
"For they say the weaver cunningly put in flocks of silk from old silken
rags and has made a beautiful, glistening surface that catches the light
in various colors. A man in Germantown, 'tis said. We shall be so wise
presently that we shall not hanker after England's goods."
What a merry time they had! And then Primrose must sing some songs.
Allin thought he had never heard anything so beautiful as the one of
Lovelace's. And he was so sorry to have them go that he looked at
Primrose with wistful eyes.
"When I am quite strong I am coming around to Madam Wetherill's for half
a day."
She blushed and nodded. He was very tired and turned over in his chair,
and in his half sleepiness could still see Primrose Henry.
The news was true enough. And though the Earl of Cornwallis received
back his sword, the twenty-eight battle flags were delivered to the
Americans, with all the other trophies.
Congress assembled and Secretary Thompson read the cheering news. Bells
were rung, and it was such a gala day as the city had never seen.
Impromptu processions thronged the streets, salutes were fired, and far
into the night rockets were sent up. The little old house in Arch
Street where Betsy Ross lived, who had made the first flag with the
thirteen stars, that could wave proudly over the other twenty-eight
captured ones, had her house illuminated by enthusiastic citizens.
Hundreds of Tories accepted the offer of pardon. Clinton reached the
Chesapeake too late for any assistance and returned disheartened and
dismayed, for it was felt that this was indeed a signal victory, and the
renown of English arms at an end.
The troops were not disbanded for more than a year afterward, but many
of the soldiers and officers were furloughed, and it was announced that
Washington would be in Philadelphia shortly, so every preparation was
made to receive the great commander.
Primrose had a tardy note from her brother that brought tears to her
eyes and much contrition of spirit.
His wound had been troublesome, but never very serious. Then a fever had
set in. For weeks he could not decide what to do. Being a paroled
prisoner, he had no right to take up arms. He was beginning to be very
much discouraged as to the outcome of the war. Whether to go back to
England or not was the question he studied without arriving at any
decision.
There had been a second heir born to his great-uncle, so there was
little likelihood of his succeeding to the estate. Whether they were of
the true Nevitt blood, considering the low ebb of morals and the many
temptations of court life for a gay young wife, he sometimes doubted,
but he had to accept the fact. His uncle had given him a handsome income
at first, but he could see now that it was paid at longer intervals and
with much pleading of hard times. Indeed, from these very complaints of
exorbitant taxes, he gleaned that the war was becoming more unpopular at
home.
And now had come this crushing defeat. What should he do? A return to
England did not look inviting. The dearest tie on earth was in
Philadelphia. And that was his home, his father's home. Sometimes he
half desired to go there and begin a new life.
"I long for you greatly, little Primrose," he wrote. "I seem like a boat
with no rudder, that is adrift on an ocean. Do you think good Madam
Wetherill, who has been so much to you, would let you ask a guest for a
few days? A Henry who has dared to lift his hand against the country of
his birth, and regrets it now in his better understanding of events?
For, if England had listened to her wisest counselors, the war had never
been. I am ill and discouraged, and have a weak longing for a little
love from my dear rebel sister, a rebel no longer, but a victor. Will
she be generous? And then I will decide upon what I must do, for I
cannot waste any more of life."
"Oh, dear aunt, read it, for I could not without crying. Dear Phil! What
shall I do?" and she raised her tear-wet face.
"Why, ask him here, of course," smilingly. "I am not an ogre, and, being
victors, we can afford to be generous. It will be a new amusement for
thee, and keep thee from getting dull!"
"Dull?" Then she threw her arms about the elder's neck and kissed her
many times.
"Child, thou wilt make me almost as silly as thyself. In my day a maiden
stood with downcast eyes and made her simple courtesy for favors, and
thou comest like a whirlwind. Sure, there is not a drop of Quaker blood
in thy veins, thou art so fond of kissing. Thou art Bessy Wardour all
over."
"See, madam--dost thou like me better this way?"
She stood before her in great timidity with clasped hands and eyes down
to the ground. And she was so irresistible that Madam Wetherill caught
her in her arms.
"I am quite as bad as thou," she declared. "We are a couple of silly
children together. If thou should ever marry----"
"But I shall not marry. I shall be gay and frisky all my first years;
then I shall take to some solid employment, perhaps write a volume of
letters or chatty journal and say sharp things about my neighbors, wear
a high cap and spectacles, and keep a cat who will scratch every guest.
There, is it not a delightful picture?"
"Go and write thy letters, saucy girl. All the men will fear thy tongue,
that is hung so it swings both ways."
"Like the bells on the old woman's fingers and toes, 'It makes music
wherever I go.' Is not that a pretty compliment? Polly Wharton's brother
gave it to me. Ah, if my brother had been like that!"
"Do not say hard or naughty things to him, moppet. What is past is
past."
Primrose Henry's brother was greatly moved by some traces of tears he
found in the epistle, and he was so hungering for the comforts of a
little affection that he started at once.
She was much troubled now about her cousin's return. For Friend Henry
had fallen into a strange way and the doctor said he would never be any
better. The fall had numbed his spine and gradually affected his limbs.
He gave up going out, and could hardly hobble about the two rooms. Some
days he lay in bed all the time, and scarcely spoke, sleeping and
seeming dazed. Lois watched over him and waited on him with the utmost
devotion.
"Is that the voice of the child Primrose?" he asked sharply one morning
as she was cheerfully bidding Chloe and Rachel good-day.
"Yes. Wouldst thou like to see her?"
He nodded. But when Primrose came in he stared and shook his head.
"That is Bessy Wardour. I want the child Primrose," he mumbled slowly.
"I am Primrose, uncle. Mamma hath been dead this long time. But I have
grown to a big girl, as children do."
He seemed to consider. "And thou dost know Andrew. Where is my son, and
why does he stay so? I want him at home."
"He is coming soon; any day, perhaps."
"Tell him to hasten. There is something--I seem to forget, but Mr. Chew
will know. It must be cast into the fire. It is a tare among the wheat.
Go quick and tell him. My son Andrew! My only and well-beloved son!"
Then he shut his eyes and drowsed off.
"He hath not talked so much in days. Oh, will Andrew ever come? What is
it thou must do?"
"He has started by this time. There are to be some officers in
Philadelphia, and General Washington is to come to consult with
Congress. They have had a sad bereavement in Madam Washington's only
son, who was ill but a short time and leaves a young family. And I will
not let Andrew lose a moment."
"Thank you, dear child," clasping her hands.
Faith was coming up from the barn with a basket of eggs.
"Oh, dear Primrose!" she cried, "I know Uncle James is dying. They will
not let me see him alone, and there is a great thing on my conscience.
Oh, if Andrew were only here!"
"He will be here shortly. Oh, Faith, not really dying!" in alarm.
"Yes, yes! Grandmother was something that way. To be sure it is little
comfort living. But I want to tell thee--Rachel has softened strangely,
and sometimes has a frightened, far-away look in her eyes and she
listens so when her uncle frets. Oh, if I were but twenty-one, and could
get away from it all! It is as if I might see a ghost."
"He wants to see Andrew. Something is to be cast into the fire. I wish I
knew."
"It was so quiet and no one was afraid when grandmother died. But this
is awesome. Oh, Primrose, I hate to have thee go."
"Faith! Faith!" called the elder sister.
Primrose went her way in a strange state of mind. Was there anything she
could do? She would ask Aunt Wetherill.
"Something is on his mind, surely. But whether one ought to take the
responsibility to see Mr. Chew, I cannot decide."
How long the hours appeared! Twice the next day she sent fleet-footed
Joe down to see if any soldiers had come in. And Madam Wetherill called
at the Attorney General's office to find that he was in deep
consultation with the Congress.
Just at the edge of the next evening there was a voice at the great
hall door that sent a thrill to her very soul. She sped out.
"Oh, Primrose--dear child----"
But she did not fly to his arms. Some deep inward consciousness
restrained her and the words of Rachel, that just now rang in her ears.
How tall and sweet and strange withal she was. He stood for a moment
electrified. She was a child no longer.
Then she found her tongue, though there was a distraught expression in
her face as if she could cry.
"Oh, Andrew, it is a great relief to greet thee, but there is not a
moment to lose. Thy poor father is dying and longs to see thee. And
there is sorrel Jack in the stable, fresh and fleet as the wind. Madam
Wetherill has gone out to a tea-drinking, but she said thou wert to take
him at once, and we were so afraid thou would not come in time. Joe"--to
the black hall boy--"see that Jack is made ready. Meanwhile, wilt thou
have a glass of wine, or ale, or even a cup of tea?"
"Nothing, dear child. When did thou see them last?" His voice sounded
hollow to himself.
"Three days ago."
"And my mother?"
"She is well. She grows sweeter and more angel-like every day."
Then they stood and looked at each other. How fine and brave he was, and
he held his head with such spirit.
"Oh," she could not resist this, "was it not glorious there at
Yorktown?"
"It was worth half a man's life! It gave us a country. And there hath a
friend of thine come up with me, a brave young fellow--one Gilbert
Vane."
"Oh!" was all she answered.
Then the horse came, giving a joyful whinny as he felt the fresh air,
and Andrew Henry went out into the night as if a beautiful vision were
guiding him. Was it Primrose in all that strange, sweet glory?
He had ridden fast and far many a time. Up by the river here, under this
stretch of woods, then a great level of meadows, here and there a tiny
light gleaming in a house, hills, a valley, then more woods, and he drew
a long breath.
Someone came to meet him. He took his mother in his arms and kissed her,
but neither spoke, for the rapture was beyond words.
There was a candle burning on each end of the high mantelshelf. There
was Friend Browne, bent and white-haired, who looked sourly at the
soldier trappings and gave him a nerveless hand. There was Friend
Preston. On the cot lay the tall, wasted frame of James Henry, as if
already prepared for sepulture, so straight and still and composed. His
mother took her seat at the foot of the bed. Andrew knelt down and
prayed.
It was in the gray of the dawning when James Henry stirred and opened
his eyes wide. They seemed at first fixed on vacancy, then they moved
slowly around.
"Andrew, my son, my only son," and he stretched out his hands. "Tell
Primrose--tell her to burn the ungodly thing. I am glad thou hast come.
Now I shall get strong and well. I was waiting for thee."
Andrew Henry held his father's hand. It was very cool, and the pulse
was gone. That was the end of life, of what might have been love.
Rachel met her cousin in the morning with a strange gleam of fear in her
eyes. He was very gentle. After breakfast he had to go into town and
report, and get leave of absence, and inform some of the friends, Madam
Wetherill among the rest.
He had seen much of men and the world in the last few years, and learned
many things, among others that a life of repression was not religion.
And he knew now it was the love of God, and not the estimate of one's
fellowmen, that did the great work of the world and smoothed the way of
the dying. From henceforth he should live a true man's life. But his
mother would be his first care always.
Some days afterward Mr. Chew sent for him and gave him the will.
"I did not make it," he explained. "I refused to write out one that I
considered unjust, and later on he brought this to me for safe keeping.
I sincerely hope it is not the same. Take it home and read it, and then
come to me."
It was made shortly after Andrew had joined the army, and the reasons
were given straightforwardly why he left his son Andrew Henry the sum of
only one hundred dollars. In consideration of the sonlike conduct and
attention to the farm, and respect shown to himself, and Lois, his wife,
the two great barns and one hundred acres of land, meadow and orchard,
west of the barns, to Penn Morgan, the son of his wife's sister. To
Rachel Morgan, for similar care and respect, the dwelling house and one
barn and one hundred acres, and this to be chargable with Lois Henry's
home and support. Another hundred and twenty acres to Faith Morgan, and
the stock equally divided among the three. The moneys out at interest to
be his wife's share.
Lois Henry went to her son.
"I am sorry," she said. "He repented of something, and I think he meant
to have the will destroyed. He was very stern after thou didst leave,
and sometimes hard to Penn, who had much patience. I think his mind was
not quite right, and occasionally it drowsed away strangely."
"He was glad to see me. That was like a blessing. And we came to look at
matters in such different lights. He was home here with the few people
who could not see or know the events going on in the great world. I do
not think Mr. William Penn ever expected that we should narrow our lives
so much and take no interest in things outside of our own affairs. And
when one has been with General Washington and seen his broad, clear
mind, and such men as General Knox, and Greene and Lee and Marion, and
our own Robert Morris, the world grows a larger and grander place. I
shall be content with that last manifestation, and I have thee and thy
love. Sometime later on we will have a home together," and the soldier
son kissed his mother tenderly.
Penn stopped him as he was walking by the barns and looking at the
crops.
"Andrew," he began huskily, "of a truth I knew nothing about the will. I
had no plan of stepping into thy place. I had meant, when I came of age,
to take my little money and buy a plot of ground. But thy father made me
welcome, and when thou wert gone stood sorely in need of me."
"Yes, yes, thou hadst been faithful to him and it was only just to be
rewarded. I have no hard feelings toward thee, Penn, and I acquit thee
of any unjust motive."
Penn Morgan winced a little and let his eyes drop down on the path, for
an expression in the clear, frank ones bent upon him stung him a little.
How much had the suggestion he had given had to do with his cousin's
almost capture and enlistment? He knew his uncle would grudge the
service done to the rebels, and he considered it his duty to stop it. He
fancied he took this way so as not to make hard feelings between Andrew
and his father. He did not exactly wish it undone, but there was a sense
of discomfort about it.
"There were many hard times for me thou knowest nothing about," said
Penn, with an accent of justification. "He grew very unreasonable and
sharp--Aunt Lois thinks his mind was impaired longer than we knew. I
worked like a slave and held my peace. It is owing to me that the farm
is in so good a condition to-day, while many about us have been suffered
to go to waste. I have set out new fruit. I have cared for everything as
if it had been mine, not knowing whether I should get any reward in the
end. And though Rachel hath grown rather dispirited at times and crossed
my wishes, she had much to bear also. I should have some amends besides
mere farm wages."
"I find no fault. It must please thee to know thou didst fill a son's
place to him. And a life like this is satisfactory to thee." The tone
was calm.
"I could not endure soldiering and vain and worldly trappings," casting
his eye over his cousin's attire. "And I care not for the world's
foolish praise. A short time ago it was Howe and the King, now it is
Washington, and Heaven only knows what is to come. I have this two
years been spoken to Clarissa Lane and shall take my own little money
and build a house for her, and live plainly in God's sight."
"I wish thee much happiness. And never think I shall grudge thee
anything."
"And I suppose thou wilt become a great military man! Thou wert hardly
meant for a Quaker."
"I shall serve my country while she needs me," was the grave reply.
As for Rachel, she had no mind to give up all for lost. Even now she
could depend upon Primrose to keep her promise. She had the old house
that was dear to Andrew, and she had his mother in her care. When the
war was really ended and the soldiers disbanded, he must settle
somewhere, and so she took new courage. If she did not marry him there
were others who would consider her a prize. But she knew she should
never love any man as she could love Andrew Henry.
There were times when she hated herself for it. And now that he had
come, gracious, tender, and with that air of strength and authority that
always wins a woman, fine-looking withal, and clinging to some Quaker
ways and speech, her heart went out to him again in a burst of
fondness.