WHEN THE WORLD WENT WELL.
About the country farms, with their narrow ways, opinion was divided.
Andrew had shocked the Friends by wearing his uniform to his father's
burial, but he felt he was the son of his country, as well, and had her
dignity to uphold. Penn Morgan was very much respected and certainly had
done his duty to his dead uncle.
But at Arch Street indignation ran high, and the Whartons were also very
outspoken. Primrose was lovelier than ever in her vehemence, and Polly
declared it was the greatest shame she had ever known. Even Mr. Chew
said it was an unjust will, and he thought something might be done in
the end with Primrose Henry's testimony.
"But for my sake thou wilt not give it. Family quarrels are sore and
disgraceful things, and it is true Penn was a good son to him. My mother
is well provided for, and I shall find something to do when peace is
declared, for it is said when Lord North heard of the surrender, he beat
his breast and paced the floor, crying out: 'Oh, God, it is all over, it
is all over, and we have lost the colonies!' So that means the end of
the war."
"And will you not stay a soldier? You are so brave and handsome,
Andrew."
She meant it from her full heart, and the admiration shone in her eyes.
But she was thinking that Rachel would never marry a soldier.
"Nay, little one," smiling with manly tenderness. "I have no love for
soldiering without a cause. When all is gained you will see even our
great commander come back to private life. I think to-day he would
rather be at Mount Vernon with his wife and the little Custis children
than all the show and trappings of high military honors. And there
should never be any love or lust of conquest except for the larger
liberty."
Madam Wetherill comforted him with great kindliness.
"I think thou wilt lose nothing in the end," she said gravely. For
though she was somewhat set against cousins marrying, and Andrew seemed
too grave a man for butterfly Primrose, she remembered Bessy Wardour had
been very happy.
Allin Wharton could walk out with a cane, and found his way often down
to Arch Street. He was sitting there one morning, making Primrose sing
no end of dainty songs for him, when a chaise drove up to the door.
"Now there is a caller and I will sing no more for you," she exclaimed
with laughing grace. "Some day these things will be worn threadbare with
words falling out and leaving holes."
"And you can sing la, la, as you do sometimes when you pretend to
forget, and so patch it up."
"Then my voice will get hoarse like a crow. Ah, someone asks for Miss
Henry. How queer! I hardly know my own name."
She ran out heedlessly. Allin was no longer pale, and gaining flesh, but
this man was ghostly, and for a moment she stared.
"Oh, Phil! Phil!" she cried, and went to his arms with a great throb of
sisterly love.
"Oh, Primrose! Surely you have grown beautiful by the hour. And such a
tall girl--why, a very woman!"
"But how have you come? We have been waiting and waiting for word. Oh,
sit down, for you look as if you would faint."
He took the big splint armchair in the hall, and she stood by him
caressing his hand, while tears glittered on her lashes.
"I reached the town yesterday. I had not the courage to come, and was
very tired with my journey, so I went to Mrs. Grayson's, on Second
Street. I knew her during Howe's winter; some of our officers were
there."
"'Our.' Oh, Phil! now that all is over I want to hear you say 'my
country.' For it is your birthplace. There must be no mine or thine."
"I am a poor wretch without a country, Primrose," he said falteringly.
"Nay, nay! You must have a share in your father's country. I shall not
let you go back to England."
"I have thought the best place to go would be one's grave. Everything
has failed. Friends are dead or strayed away. The cause is lost. For I
know now no armies can make a stand against such men as these patriots.
And if I had never gone across the sea, I suppose I should be one of
them. But it is ill coming in at the eleventh hour, when you have lost
all and must beg charity."
"But we have abundant charity and love."
"You are on the winning side."
Her beautiful, tender eyes smiled on him, and the tremulous lips tried
not to follow, but she was proud of it, her country's side.
"Oh, forgive me!" she cried in a burst of pity.
"Nay, Primrose, I am not so much of a coward but that I can stand being
beaten and endure the stigma of a lost cause--an unjust cause, we shall
have to admit sooner or later. But I seem to have been shilly-shallying,
a sort of gold-lace soldier, and the only time I was ever roused--oh,
Primrose! believe that I did not know who I should attack until it was
too late."
"And, Phil, you will take it all back now. Come hither in the parlor.
There is one soldier who will shake hands heartily without malice, and
my Cousin Andrew is often dropping in--_your_ cousin," in a sweet,
unsteady voice, that was half a laugh and half a cry. "And we shall all
be friends. Allin!"
He thought the name had never sounded so sweet and he would have gone up
to the cannon's mouth if she had summoned him that way. She had caught
it from Polly saying it so much.
But he hesitated a little, too. Besides the morning of the skirmish
there had been the other encounter of hard words.
She took a hand of each and clasped them together, though she felt the
resistance to the very finger ends. She smiled at one and at the other,
and the sweetness of the rosy lips and dimpled chin was enough to
conquer the most bitter enemies.
"Now you are to be friends, honest and true. This is what women will
have to do: gather up the ends and tie them together, and make cunning
chains that you cannot escape. Oh, there comes Madam Wetherill. See,
dear aunt, I have reconciled Tory and Rebel!" and she laughed
bewitchingly.
Allin said he must go, but he did wish Philemon Nevitt had not come
quite so soon. How queer it was to meet thus, but then, could any man
resist Primrose Henry?
Afterward they had a long talk. It seemed true now that Philemon Nevitt
stood very much alone in the world, and certainly whatever dreams he had
entertained of greatness were at an end. They had not been so very
ambitious, to be sure, but he was young yet and could begin a new life.
But first of all he was to get sound and in good spirits, and Madam
Wetherill quite insisted that he should spend the winter in Philadelphia
and really study the country he knew so little about.
Dinner-time came, and she would have him stay. Every moment he thought
Primrose more bewitching. For when one decided she was all froth and
gayety, the serious side would come out and a tenderness that suggested
her mother. It was not all frivolity, and he found she was wonderfully
well-read for a girl of that day.
Philemon Nevitt was more than surprised when his cousin made his
appearance. There was something in the hearty clasp and full, rich voice
that went to his lonely heart. Once he recalled that he had met the
quiet Quaker in his farm attire in this very house, and the bareness of
his uncle's home, at his call, had rather displeased his fashionable and
luxurious tastes.
They could not help thinking of the time when they had met in what might
have been deadly affray if Providence had not overruled. And now Andrew
Henry was many steps up the ladder of success; and he was down to the
very bottom. He felt almost envious.
"But Andrew does not mean to be a soldier for life," Primrose declared
afterward.
"What, not with this splendid prospect? And that martial air seems born
with him. Why, it would be sinful to throw so much away when it is in
his very grasp. I cannot believe it!"
"There is good Quaker blood in his veins as well," said Madam Wetherill
with a smile. "And the fighting Quakers have been the noblest of all
soldiers because they went from the highest sense of patriotism, not for
any glory. And you will find them going back to the peaceful walks of
life with as much zest as ever."
"Yet you are not a Quaker, though you use so much of the speech. And I
miss the pretty quaintness in Primrose. How dainty it was!"
Primrose ran away and in five minutes came back in a soft, gray silken
gown, narrow and quite short in the skirt, a kerchief of sheer mull
muslin crossed on her bosom, and all her hair gathered under a plain
cap. Madam Wetherill was hardly through explaining that she had always
been a Church of England woman, and one thing she had admired in Mr.
Penn more than all his other wisdom, was his insistence that everyone
should be free to worship as he chose.
"Oh, Primrose!" he cried in delight. "What queer gift do you possess of
metamorphosis? For one would declare you had never known aught outside
of a gray gown. And each change brings out new loveliness. Madam
Wetherill, how do you keep such a sprite in order?"
"She lets me do as I like, and I love to do as she likes," was the quick
reply, as she laid her pretty hand on the elder woman's shoulder, and
smiled into her eyes.
"She is a spoiled child," returned madam fondly. "But since I have
spoiled her myself, I must e'en put up with it."
"But Mrs. Wharton spoils me too, and thinks the best of the house must
be brought out for me. And even Aunt Lois has grown strangely
indulgent."
"I believe I should soon get well in this atmosphere. And of course,
Primrose," with a certain amused meaning, "you will never rest until I
am of your way of thinking and have forsworn the king. Must I become a
Quaker as well?"
"Nay, that is as thou pleasest," she said with a kind of gay
sententiousness.
All of life was not quite over for him, Philemon Nevitt decided when he
went back to Mrs. Grayson's house. It had been quite a famous house when
the Declaration of Independence was pending, and held Washington, and
Hancock, and many another rebel worthy. Then it had been a great place
again in the Howe winter. Madam Wetherill had generously invited him to
make her house his home, but he had a delicacy about such a step.
Early in December hostilities at the south ceased and the British
evacuated Charleston. Preparations were made for a discussion of the
preliminaries of peace. John Adams, John Jay, Benjamin Franklin,
Jefferson, and Laurens were, after some discussion, named commissioners
and empowered to act. General and Mrs. Washington came up to
Philadelphia.
There was not a little wrangling in the old State House, for it was not
possible that everyone should agree. And if the men bickered the women
had arguments as well. Some were for having an American King and
degrees of royalty that would keep out commoners, but these were mostly
Tory women.
There was not a little longing for gayety and gladness after the long
and weary strife, the deaths, the wounded soldiers, and all the
privations. The elder people might solace themselves with card-playing,
but the younger ones wanted a different kind of diversion.
The old Southwark Theater was opened under the attractive title of
"Academy of Polite Science." Here a grand ovation was given to General
Washington, "Eugenie," a play of Beaumarchais, being acted, with a fine
patriotic prologue. The young women were furbishing up their neglected
French, or studying it anew, and the French minister was paid all the
honors of the town. The affection and gratitude shown the French allies
were one of the features of the winter.
Philemon Henry was proud enough of his pretty sister, and the still
fine-looking grand dame Mrs. Wetherill. Then there was piquant Polly
Wharton with her smiles and ready tongue, and even Andrew Henry was
recreant enough to grace the occasion, which seemed to restore an
atmosphere of amity and friendly alliance.
There was more than one who recalled the gay young Andre and his
personations during the liveliest winter Philadelphia had ever known.
Dancing classes were started again, and the assemblies reopened. Many of
the belles of that older period were married; not a few of them, like
Miss Becky Franks, had married English officers, and were now departing
for England since there was no more glory to be gained at war, and these
heroes were somewhat at a discount.
There were many young patriots and not a few Southerners who had come up
with the army, for Philadelphia, though she had been buffeted and
traduced, had proved the focus of the country, since Congress had been
held here most of the time; here the mighty Declaration had been born
and read, when the substance was treason, and here the flag had been
made; here indeed the first glad announcement of the great victory had
been shouted out in the silent night. So the old town roused herself to
a new brightness. Grave as General Washington could be when seriousness
was requisite, he had the pleasant Virginian side to his nature, and was
not averse to entertainments.
Gilbert Vane had returned with the soldiers, and ere long he knew his
friend was in the city; for Major Henry said the brother of Primrose was
almost a daily visitor at Madam Wetherill's.
"And still a stout Tory, I suppose, regarding me as a renegade?" Vane
ventured with a half smile.
"He has changed a great deal. Primrose, I think, lops off a bit of
self-conceit and belief in the divine right of kings, at every
interview. And he is her shadow."
"Then I should have no chance of seeing her," the young man said
disappointedly.
"Nay. I think Cousin Phil nobler than to hold a grudge when so many
grudges have been swept away. I find him companionable in many respects.
He was in quite ill-health when he first came, but improves daily."
"He was like an elder brother to me always, and it was a sore pang to
offend him. But I came to see matters in a new light. And I wonder how
it was his sweet little sister did not convert him? She was always so
courageous and charming, a most fascinating little rebel in her
childhood. I should have adored such a sister. Indeed, if I had
possessed one at home I should never have crossed the ocean."
Andrew repeated part of this conversation to Primrose. He had been
impressed with the young man's patriotism.
"Oh, you know, in a certain way, he was _my_ soldier," she said with her
sunniest smile. "And now I must see him. How will we plan it? For Phil
is a little proud and a good deal obstinate. Polly would know how to
bring it about, she has such a keen wit. And Allin would like him, I
know. Polly shall give you an invitation for him at her next dance. And
you must come, even if you do not dance."
Andrew gave an odd, half-assenting look. It was as Rachel had said long
ago; in most things she wound him around her finger.
But at the first opportunity she put the subject cunningly to Philemon.
"What became of that old friend of yours, who changed your colors for
mine, and went to fight my battles?" she asked gayly, one day, when they
had stopped reading a thin old book of poems by one George Herbert.
"My friend? Oh, do you mean young Vane? I have often wondered. He went
to Virginia--I think I told you. It was a great piece of folly, when
there was a home for him in England."
"But if his heart was with us!" she remarked prettily with her soft
winsomeness. "Art thou very angry with him?" and her beautiful eyes wore
an appealing glance.
"Primrose, when you want to subdue the enemy utterly, use 'thee' and
'thou.' No man's heart could stand against such witchery. Thou wilt be a
sad coquette later on."
She laughed then at his attempt. There was always a little dimple in her
chin, and when she laughed one deepened in her cheek.
"Surely I am spoiled with flattery. I should be vainer than a peacock.
But that is not answering my question. I wonder how much thou hast of
the Henry malice."
"Was I angry? Why, the defection seemed traitorous then. I counted
loyalty only on the King's side. But I have learned that a man can
change when he is serving a bad side and still be honest. He was a fine
fellow, but I think he was tired of idleness and frivolity, and he fell
in with some women who were of your way of believing, and their glowing
talk fascinated him. One of them I know had a brother in the southern
army."
"Then it was not _I_ who converted him." She gave a pretty pout, in mock
disappointment.
"I think you started it. Though New York had many rebels."
"And perhaps he will come back and marry one of them."
"He may be at that now. Nay," seriously, "more likely he is in some
unknown grave. And he was very dear to me," with a manly sigh.
"Then you could forgive him?" softly.
"In his grave, yes. Alive, the question would be whether, being the
victor, he would not crow over me. Oh, little Primrose, war is a very
bitter thing after all. To think I came near to killing Cousin Andrew,
and yet he holds no malice. What a big heart he has! I do not believe
in Henry malice."
"And _you_ will hold no malice?"
"It is hardly likely I shall see him."
She turned around and pretended to be busy with the curtain so that he
might not see the glad light shining in her eyes. But he was thinking of
the old days when they were lads together and talked of what they would
do when they were lords of Vane Priory and Nevitt Grange.
And when they met they simply looked into each other's eyes and clasped
hands; the new disquiet being forgotten and the old affection leaping to
its place. Just a moment. They were forming a little dance, and
Lieutenant Vane was to lead with Miss Polly Wharton, while Primrose had
Allin for a partner.
"You little mischief," and Phil gave Primrose a soft pinch afterward,
"how did you dare? What if we had both been foes to the teeth?"
"Ah, I knew better. Andrew said he was longing to be friends, but would
not dare make the first advances. And if you had refused to speak with
him at this house you would not be gentlemanly."
"I should like to kiss you before everybody."
"It is not good manners."
"You will have a rival."
"I shall not like that. Whatever you do, no one shall be loved better
than I."
"Not even a wife, if I should get one? Oh, you jealous little Primrose!"
"Let me see--if I should choose her----" And she glanced up archly.
"Then you would have me here forever. She would be a maiden of this
quaint old town."
"Then I shall choose her," triumphantly.
"Primrose, come and sing," said half a dozen voices.
And though Gilbert Vane listened entranced to the singing, he also had
an ear for his friend. It was so good to be at peace with him, and they
promised to meet the next day.
Madam Wetherill was glad to see the young lieutenant again. Her house
seemed to be headquarters, as before, and nothing interested her more
than to hear the story of the southern campaign from such an
enthusiastic talker as Vane, for Andrew was rather reticent about his
own share in these grand doings.
It was not a cold winter, and the spring opened early. Philadelphia
seemed to rise from her depression and there were signs of business once
more, although the finances of the nation were in a most troubled state.
Shops were opening, stores put on their best and bravest attire, and
suddenly there was a tremor in the very air, a flutter and song of
birds, and a hazy, grayish-blue look about the trees that were swelling
with buds, soon to turn into crimson maple blooms, and tender birch
tassels and all beautiful greenery, such as moves the very soul, and
informs it with new life.
In March the cessation of hostilities was agreed upon, and plans looking
toward peace.
"Now, little rebel!" exclaimed Philemon Henry, "you must lay down your
arms. Surely you should meet us half-way?"
"What arms?" archly, smiling out of mischievous eyes.
"A sharp and saucy tongue. Sometimes you are hardly just to Vane, and in
your eyes he should be a patriot."
"He is. But surely I do not talk half as bad as Mrs. Ferguson and Miss
Jeffries. One would think, listening to them, that the Americans had no
sense, and could not govern the country they fought for. Why do not
people like these go back to England?"
"Shall I go?" in a voice of sad indecision.
"If you talked like that I should bid you a joyous send off! What a pity
Miss Jeffries had not married one of Howe's officers; then she would
have to go when they are all sent out of the country. And poor old Mr.
Jeffries hath quite lost his head. Aunt hates to play with him any more,
for he loses incessantly."
"But do not the soldiers need something out of the fund?"
They both laughed at that.
"No doubt we could still find some with well-worn shoes. But the need
not being urgent, she hates to impoverish the old man who hath lost so
much. For it seems he made some heavy bets upon Lord Cornwallis reducing
the southern Colonies and entering Philadelphia in triumph. And even now
he is sure the King will never consent to the separation."
"Which shows how much the King loved the Colonies."
"A queer love, that would deprive them of any kind of freedom. No, my
kind of love is broad and generous, and not thinking how much profit one
can squeeze out," and her lovely eyes were deep with intense feeling.
"When wilt thou give me a little of this measure?"
"Oh, Phil, am I very naughty and cross?" and her sweet voice would have
disarmed anyone. "But I think sometimes you are only half converted. You
talk of returning to England, and it grieves me."
"But if I stay here I must find some business. I am not very lucky at
cards. I have resigned my position, and now that poor old Sir Wyndham is
dead and the income shrunk sadly, I can count on no more from that
quarter. There is only the interest on what my dear father invested for
me, and that may pay but poorly. They will hardly want to make a rebel
officer of me, since if peace comes they will disband many of the
regiments. To beg I am ashamed. I hardly know how to work. If I went
home and re-enlisted--England always hath some wars on hand."
"They are a naughty, quarrelsome nation, and then they wonder how we
come to have so much spunk and bravery! No, thou shalt not go back.
Business here will stir up. Then men talk to Madam Wetherill about it.
And I think thou hast wit enough to learn. Thou shalt get settled here,
and--and marry some pretty rebel wife----"
"And quarrel with her?" mirthfully.
"Nay, she shall be better tempered than I. Everybody hath spoiled me,
and I am a shrew. No man will ever want to marry me, and I am glad of
that."