AN APRIL GIRL.
"On Thursday next I shall have a birthday," said Primrose Henry. "And I
shall be seventeen. Yet I never can catch up with Polly, who is
nineteen."
"Well--some day thou wilt be nineteen. And what shall we do for thee?
Wilt thou have a party?"
"I am tired of parties, and it is growing warm to dance. I believe in a
fortnight or so the army is to leave. Andrew is going with the commander
at first, but, if he is not needed, will come back. He makes such a
handsome soldier."
"Thou art a vain little moppet, always thinking whether people look fine
or not."
"But Andrew is handsome of himself. I wish Phil came up to six feet and
past. I think the Nevitts could not have been overstocked with beauty."
"How thou dost flout the poor lad! I wonder that he loves thee at all!"
"But I love him," with charming serenity.
"And show it queerly."
Primrose gave her light, rippling laugh.
"I think"--after a pause, twirling her sewing around by the thread--"I
think we will all take a walk about the dear old town. Then we will come
home and have tea, and rest ourselves."
"But why not ride? I am too old and too stout to be trotting about, and
Patty is hardly----"
"Patty will flirt with my fine cousin. Oh, I have caught her at it. You
would be amazed to know the secrets they have with each other, and the
low-toned talk that goes on. I have to be severe, and to be severe on
one's birthday would be hard indeed."
Madam Wetherill laughed.
"Betty Mason was complaining of being so mewed up all winter. And now
her baby is old enough to leave, and she might come down and see the
changes planned for the town, and the other changes since the winter she
had her gay fling. What a little girl I was! And she being a widow can
watch us, but Phil has such sharp eyes that he might be a veritable
dragon. He will not let me buy a bit of candied calamus unless the boy
is under ten, he is so afraid I shall be looked at. And there will be
Polly's brother to watch her. But Betty will have two attendants, which
is hardly fair, and she thinks Gilbert Vane quite a hero."
"And Andrew Henry?"
"Oh, she is soft-hearted about him because he has lost his fortune. And
Gilbert Vane is like to lose his in the general settling up. So she can
administer the same kind of consolation to both."
"Thou hast a shrewd way of allotting matters. Poor Betty! It will be
nice to ask her since you both have brothers to watch over you. And you
will not stray very far? Then what delicacies will you have for supper?"
"Oh, we shall be hungry as wolves. I must see what Mistress Kent can
give us. She thinks soldiers have grown hollow by much tramping and
cannot be filled up."
Madam Wetherill smiled indulgently.
They all promised to come. Julius went out on Wednesday and brought in
Betty, who was delighted with the outing.
But when Primrose opened her eyes at six in the morning there was a
gentle patter everywhere, and dashes on the window pane. But, oh! how
sweet all the air was, and the clouds were having a carnival in the sky,
chasing each other about in the vain endeavor to cover up the bits of
laughing blue.
"Patty," in a most doleful voice, "it rains!"
"To be sure, child," cheerfully. "What would you have on an April day?
And if it rains before seven 'twill clear before eleven. There will be
no dust for your walk."
"You are a great comforter, Patty. Are you sure it will stop by noon?"
"Oh, la, yes! April days can never keep a whole mind."
"That must be the reason I am so changeable."
"I dare say. But I was born in November, and I like to change my mind.
'Twould be a queer world if people were like candles, all run in one
mold."
"But there are fat candles and thin candles."
"And they are always round. Folks have corners. They're queer-like and
pleasant by spells, and you can't see everything about them at a glance.
We must have candles, but I have a hankering for folks as well."
Primrose laughed and ran to Betty, who was not as philosophical, and was
afraid that the day was spoiled.
"The wind is west," said Madam Wetherill.
Sure enough, by nine it was a radiant day. The two girls chattered, for
Betty was only three-and-twenty, and the news from Virginia had put new
heart in her.
"You must talk to Lieutenant Vane as much as you can. You see, he was
there so much longer than Andrew, and knew more about everything. And he
is such a splendid American! But he may have to give up Vane Priory,
which Phil says was beautiful. Or, rather, it will be confiscated.
General Howe sent over word when he joined our army. It is hard to be
called a traitor and a deserter when you are doing a noble deed. But he
doesn't seem very disheartened over it."
"It is very brave of him."
Primrose brought out her pretty frocks and her buckles and some of her
mother's trinkets she was allowed to wear, and Betty told over various
Virginian gayeties, and the sun went on shining. So, quite early Polly
and Allin came. Allin had decided to study law, for his ambition had
been roused by the appointment of really learned men to discuss the
points of coming peace. And there would always be legal troubles to
settle, property boundaries to define, wills to make, and Allin admitted
he had seen quite enough of war, though, if the country needed him, he
should go again. But Gilbert Vane was a truly enthusiastic soldier.
When Andrew came he announced that the company was to be ready to start
next week. General Washington would have his quarters for some time up
the Hudson, so as to be ready for a descent on New York if England
should start the war afresh on any pretext.
Certainly the afternoon was beautiful. People were beginning with
gardens, and climbing roses were showing green stems. And the tall box
alleys were full of new sprouts, betraying a great contrast to the deep
green that had withstood the frosts of many winters.
There was a ferry over Dock Creek; indeed, there were but few bridges,
but being ferried over was more to their taste. Then they walked up
Society Hill, where some fine, substantial houses were being put up.
There were the city squares, and, far over, a great ragged waste, with
tree stumps everywhere.
"That is what you did in Howe's winter--cut down all the beautiful
woods--Governor's woods," Primrose said resentfully. "There are traces
of you everywhere. It will take years and years for us to forget it or
remedy it."
"But do you not suppose the soldiers around Valley Forge cut down the
woods as well? You would not have them freeze. And the poor men here
wanted a little warmth," said Phil.
"There was plenty of waste land where you could have gone," in her
severest tone.
"I thought myself there were many acts of vandalism," commented Vane.
"But I believe it is the rule of warfare to damage your enemy all you
can. Think of the magnificent cities the old Greeks and Romans destroyed
utterly."
"They were half savages, idolaters, believing in all sorts of gods. And
you pretended to be Christians!"
"You were so sweet a moment ago, Primrose," said her brother.
"Unalloyed sweetness is cloying. You need salt and spice as well. And I
always feel afraid I shall forgive you too easily when I look at those
poor stumps and pass the jail."
"You can remember all one's sins easily," Phil retorted rather
gloomily.
"And one's virtues, too, behind one's back. Never fear her loyalty, Mr.
Nevitt." Phil had insisted everyone should drop his military cognomen.
"You should have heard her solicitude when no word came from you, and
was there not some joy in her face when you appeared that could not have
put itself into words?" cried Allin Wharton eagerly, for he always
resented the least suspicion of a non-perfection in Primrose.
"Now I will cross thee off my books," blushing and trying to look stern.
"Allin Wharton! To betray a friend in that manner!"
"To recount her virtues," and Betty Mason laughed over to the pretty
child. "She has a right to be like an April day."
"And I found this pretty conceit in some reading," interposed Vane. "We
should have tried our pens in your behalf, Mistress Primrose, but I knew
nothing of this birthday except just as we met, so I can only offer
second-hand, but then 'tis by a famous fellow:
"'May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers,--
But rather April wet by kind,
For love is full of showers.'"
"Am I such a crying girl?" Primrose's face was a study in its struggle
not to smile.
"And here is another." Andrew Henry half turned:
"'When April nods, with lightsome smiles
And Violets all a-flower;
Her willful mood may turn to tears
Full twice within an hour.'"
"Then I am very fickle--and bad tempered, and--and----" There was deep
despair in the voice.
"And Primrose, an April girl who can have whatever mood she chooses,"
said Wharton. "I wish I had known one was to bring posies of thought and
I would have looked up one. How I envy those people who can write
acrostics or sudden verses, and all I know seem to have gone from me."
Primrose made a mocking courtesy. "Thank you. We can all go and gather
violets. I know a stretch of woods the British left standing, where the
grass is full of them. And a bit of stream that runs into the
Schuylkill. Oh, and a clean, well-behaved mead-house where one can get
delightful cheesecake. Now that we have reached the summit, look about
the town. A square, ugly little town, is it not?"
"It is not ugly," Polly protested resentfully.
The rivers on either side, the angle with docks jutting out, and
creeping up along the Delaware, Windmill Island and the Forts; the two
long, straight streets crossing at right angles, and even then rows of
red-brick cottages, but finer ones as well, with gardens, some seeming
set in a veritable park; and Master Shippen's pretty herd of deer had
been brought back. There were Christ Church and St. Peter's with their
steeples, there were more modest ones, and the Friends' meeting house
that had held many a worthy.
"It is well worth seeing," said Betty Mason. "Some of the places about
make me think of my own State and the broad, hospitable dwellings."
"Oh, but you should see Stenton and Clieveden! and the Chew House at
Germantown is already historical. There is to be a history writ of the
town, I believe, and all it has gone through!" exclaimed Polly.
Then they begin to come down in a kind of winding fashion. Women are out
making gardens and tying up vines, some of them in the quaint, short
gown and petticoat, relegated mostly to servants. Then Friends, in cap
and kerchief; children in the fashion of their parents, with an odd
made-over appearance.
"It will be a grand city if it stretches out according to Mr. Penn's
ideas. And oh, Betty! you must see the old house in Letitia Street, with
its dormer windows and odd little front door with its overhanging roof.
And the house on Second Street that is more pretentious, with its slated
roof. If the talk is true about peace there are great plans for the
advancement of the town. They are going to cut down some of the hills
and drain the meadows that the British flooded," and Primrose glanced
sidewise at her brother's face with a half-teasing delight. "So, if the
dreams of the big men who govern the city come true, there will
presently be no old Philadelphia. I hear them talking of it with Aunt
Wetherill."
They wander on, now and then changing places and partners, having a
little merry badinage. Polly keeps coming to the rescue where Philemon
Nevitt is concerned.
There are other gay parties out rambling; some with hands full of wild
flowers, laughing and chatting, occasionally bestowing a nod on the
Whartons and Primrose, and staring perhaps unduly at the tall fine
soldier with his martial air and uniform, hardly suspecting the Quaker
heart underneath.
"Now that we have come so near I bethink me of an errand for Mistress
Janice Kent," exclaimed Primrose. "And you will like to see the row of
small, cheerful houses where some poor women come, some poor married
folks when life has gone hard with them. See here is Walnut Street. Let
us turn in. It is an old, old place that somebody left some money to
build."
"Old John Martin," said Andrew. "Yes, I have been here. It is a snug,
pretty place, not an alms-house."
"My old lady is not in this long, plain house, but around in Fourth
Street, in her own little cottage. See how quaint they are?"
A narrow passage like a green lane ran through the center. Small,
one-storied cottages, with a doorway and a white-curtained window; a
steep roof with a window in the end to light the garret. There was a
garden with each. There were fruit trees ready to burst into bloom, so
sheltered were they. There were grape arbors, where old men were smoking
and old ladies knitting.
One old lady had half a dozen little children in her room, teaching a
school. One was preparing dried herbs in small cardboard boxes. There
were sweet flavors as of someone distilling; there was a scent of
molasses candy being made, or a cake baked, even new, warm biscuit.
Everybody seemed happy and well employed.
"It is something like the Church Charities at home," said Vane, "only
much more tidy and beautiful."
"It is where I shall come some day," announced Primrose with a plaintive
accent, as if she were at the end of life.
"You!" Polly glanced at her with surprised eyes, hardly knowing whether
to laugh or not.
"As if you would ever have need!" declared Betty Mason.
"But they are not very poor, you see. They have to be worthy people and
nice people, who have been unfortunate. And when I am old I shall beg
one of the little houses to live in. I think I shall make sweet flavors
and raise herbs."
She looked so utterly grave and in earnest that both Wharton and
Lieutenant Vane stared as if transfixed.
"What nonsense!" exclaimed her brother. "As if there would not always be
someone----"
"But I shall live to be very old, I know. Aunt Wetherill tells of one of
the Wardour women who lived to be a hundred and two years old, ever so
long ago, in England. And it is hardly probable, Phil, that you can live
to be one hundred and ten or more, and, if you did, you would most
likely be helpless," in an extremely assured tone.
"Well, you would not be poor," he subjoined quickly, indignantly.
"How do you know? Some of the people here have been in comfortable
circumstances. And, two days ago, when Mr. Northfield was over he was
talking about some of papa's property that had nearly gone to ruin--been
destroyed, I think, and would take a good deal to repair it. And--eighty
or ninety years is a long time to live. There may be another war--people
are so quarrelsome--and everything will go then! Betty's house was
burned, and her father's fine plantation laid waste. And Betty is not
very much older than I, and all these misfortunes have happened to her."
The whole four men are resolved in their secret hearts that no sorrow or
want will ever come to her, even if she should outlive them all.
They reached Mrs. Preston's cottage and Primrose delivered her message.
Then they lingered about, and Betty concluded it would be no great
hardship to come here when one was done with other pleasures and things,
and had little to live upon.
"It is a delightful spot," said Vane, "and I never dreamed of it before.
That it should have been here all through that winter----"
"But you were dancing and acting plays!"
"Don't call up any more of my bad, mistaken deeds! Have I not convinced
you that I repented of them, and am doing my best to make amends?"
The fire in Vane's eyes awed Primrose, conquered her curiously, and a
treacherous softening of the lines about her sweet mouth almost made a
smile.
"And now what next?" commented Polly. "Do you know how we are loitering?
Has the place charmed us? I never thought it so fascinating before."
It was to charm many a one, later on, like a little oasis in the great
walls of brick that were to grow about it, of traffic and noise and
disputations that were never to enter here, and to have a romance,
whether rightly or wrongly, that was to call many a one thither at the
thought of Evangeline. And so a poet puts an imperishable sign on a
place, or a historian a golden seal.
"We were to go somewhere else. And see where the sun is dropping to. It
always slides so fast on that round part of the sky."
"Yes, the most beautiful little place, and to get our violets. Betty,
when they are all gone we will have long days hunting up queer corners
and things. And somewhere--out at Dunk's Ferry--there is a strange sort
of body who tells fortunes occasionally--when she is in _just_ the
humor. And that makes it the more exciting, because you can never quite
know. We will take Patty; we can find all the strange corners."
"Why couldn't we all go? To have one's fortune told--not that I believe
in it," and Vane laughed.
"Then you have no business to have it told. And Miss Jeffries runs over
the cards and tells ever so many things, and they _are_ really true. You
will meet her again some evening."
Gilbert Vane blushed. The fortune he wanted to hear was not one with
which he would like a whole roomful entertained.
"It is this way."
Primrose walked on ahead with Andrew Henry.
"There is a suspicious-looking cloud, bigger than a man's hand."
"Oh, then let us hurry! Nonsense, Phil, why do you alarm a body? See how
the sun shines. It is going past. Now--down at the end of this lane----"
Just then some great drops fell. Primrose ran like a sprite and turned a
triumphant face to the others when she was under shelter.
It was indeed a fairy nook with a strip of woods back of it. A little
thread of a stream ran by on one side. In summer, when the trees were in
full leaf, it would be a bower of greenery. A low, story-and-a-half
house, with a porch running all across the front, roofed over with
weather-worn shingles. The hall doors, back and front, stand wide open,
and there is a long vista reaching down to the clump of woods made up of
a much-patched-up trellis with several kinds of vines growing over it to
furnish a delightful shade in summer. Some benches in the shining glory
of new green paint stand along the edge. There was a small table with
three people about it, and the stout, easy-going hostess, who
pronounced them "lucky," as there comes a three-minutes' fierce downpour
of rain while the sun is still shining, then stops, and everything is
beaded with iridescent gems. The very sky seems laughing, and the round
sun fairly winks with an amused joviality.
In the small front yard the grass is green and thickly sown with tulips
that have two sheath-like leaves of bluish-green enfolding the bud. "It
will be a sight presently," exclaimed Polly, "but so will most of the
gardens. Why, we might be Hollanders, such a hold has this tulip mania
taken of us!"
By craning their necks a little they can look out on the Delaware and
see the ambitious little creek rushing into it. The glint of the sun
upon the changing water is magnificent.
"What a beautiful spot! Why, Polly, have we ever been here before?"
asked Allin.
"No, I think not. There are some places very like it on the Schuylkill.
But I do not remember this."
Then the hostess comes to inquire what she can serve them with. There is
fresh birch beer, there is a sassafras metheglin made with honey, there
is mead, and she looks doubtfully at the two soldiers as if her simple
list might not come up to their desires.
"And cheesecake?" ventured Primrose.
"Oh, yes! and wafers and gingerbread, and real Dutch doughnuts."
Primrose glanced around, elated. Her birthday treat was to be a success.
So they sat and refreshed themselves and jested, with Primrose in her
sunniest mood, while the sun dropped lower and lower and burnished the
river.
"I wonder if there are many violets in the woods."
"Oh, yes, indeed!" answered the woman. "It's rather early for many
people to come and I am out of the way until they begin to sail up and
down the river; that's when it is warmer, though to-day has been fine
enough."
"Suppose we go and gather the violets," suggested Philemon.
"Of course we expect you to go, don't we, Polly? But then we are going
also."
"Won't it be wet?"
"Not with that little sprinkle!" cried Primrose disdainfully.
There were dozens of pretty spring things in the woods, but violets were
enough. Large bluish-purple ones, down to almost every gradation. Then
Betty thought of an old-time verse and Lieutenant Vane of another.
"But it should be primroses," he said. "If we were at home in English
haunts we should find them. I don't know why I say at home, for I doubt
if it is ever my home again."
"I am a more hopeful exile than you," commented Betty Mason. "My country
will be restored to me, and I shall never forget that you helped."
What large, soft, dark eyes she had, and a voice with a peculiar
lingering cadence; but it did not go to one's heart like that of
Primrose.
The sun was speeding downward. It was a long walk home. Andrew Henry
headed the procession with his cousin, and Vane followed with Betty, so
it was Polly who had the two attendants, and Allin was rather out of
humor.
Janice Kent had a birthday supper for them, but with the treat at Larch
Alley, and, perhaps, some fatigue, they were not ravenous. Primrose sang
for them and was bewilderingly sweet--Andrew thought, just as the day
had been, full of caprices but ending in tender beauty. And then they
drank her health and wished her many happy returns, bidding her a very
fervent good-night.
There had been a good deal of enthusiasm about General Washington, and
many very warm friends had sympathized deeply with Mrs. Washington in
her sorrow. Plans of a new campaign had also been discussed. The city
was sorry to relinquish its noble guests. Society had taken on an aspect
of dignified courtesy; contending parties had ceased to rail at each
other, and there was a greater air of punctilious refinement, that was
to settle into a grace less formal than that of the old-time Quaker
breeding, but more elegant and harmonious. A new ambition woke in the
heart of the citizens to beautify, adorn, and improve. There was a stir
in educational circles, and the library that had languished so long was
making its voice heard. Peace was about to have her victory.
Andrew Henry was closeted a long while one morning with Madam Wetherill.
"I shall go to Newburgh with the General," he said, "but if there is to
be no more war I shall resign my commission. That sounds almost like a
martial declaration in favor of war, but it is not so. I was not meant
for a soldier except in necessity. There are those whom the life really
inspires, and who would be only too glad to fill my place. I could not
step out with such a clear conscience if I were a private. And since you
have been good enough, madam, to ask me about plans, I must confess
that I have not gone very far in any. There are, no doubt, farms around
that I could hire and make profitable, but my mother no longer has the
strength and energy to be at the head of such a place. I have thought
something might open here in the city that would enable me to make a
home for her and myself; that is my ambition now. I do not feel that I
ought to leave her to the care of my Cousin Rachel while she has a son
of her own. True, her home is left to her there, but she is not
compelled to stay in it."
"And Rachel may marry."
"I think she will. She is a smart and capable woman, but it is hard
doing all things and managing alone; though now she and Penn have made
up over a little coldness. He will till Faith's land for the present.
The greatest profit, the cherries, and one good orchard belongs to
Rachel, so she is well to do. However, I want my dear mother with me,
and by mid-summer I may return."
"I have been thinking somewhat about thee. There will be great changes
in the town. Trade already is stirring up, and commerce will begin again
when the restrictions are removed. But it is in the very heart of things
where we may look for the greatest changes. There have been many years
of doubt and hesitation, but now there is a great expanding of
enterprise. James Logan and Mr. Chew were discussing it not many
mornings since. The city must almost be made over, as one may say. I own
a great deal of waste property, and plantations in Maryland. There is
also considerable belonging to Primrose."
"But there is her brother, madam. The more I see of Philemon Henry the
better I like him. He hath had a hard year, a year of great
disappointment and mortification, and he comes out of it with more
bravery than I supposed possible for one whose opinions have been so
strongly the other way. Why not give him a helping hand?"
"You are very honorable, Friend Henry, and I respect you for it. Then,"
laughingly, "do you think you two could ever come to an agreement and be
friendly as brothers if your interests were identical?"
"I could answer for myself," he said with respectful gravity.
"For many years the old house of Henry & Co. had an excellent standing.
Mr. Northfield was much the elder and it seemed as if he might go years
the first, but he did not. Now he wishes to be relieved of all the
affairs of our dear Primrose. And I have thought, with some assistance
and a good deal of energy on the part of two young people if they should
agree, there might be a new house of Henry & Co., with its reputation
half made to begin with. I know Philemon will agree. He hath already
proposed to take a position under Mr. Morris, and seems only anxious now
to earn a living in some respectable way. But I wanted to consult thee
first."
"I thank thee a thousand times, dear madam. Am I losing Quaker
simplicity?" and he smiled gravely. "I am afraid I have acquired a good
many worldly ways."
"A little worldliness will not hurt thee. In sooth my plan would call
for a large share of it, but I want the old-fashioned trustiness and
integrity. When times change men and women, too, must change with them.
I should like to see thee a solid and respected citizen of the town--of
the new town that is to be."
"Thou dost honor me greatly. And I must confess to thee, since seeing
larger men and larger issues, a higher ambition has stirred within me.
If it had so fallen out that I had gone back to the farm, I could not
have been content with the old plodding round. And when it was taken
from me it seemed in some degree the work of Providence that I should
have been pushed out of the old nest and made to think on new lines."
"Then wilt thou carry my idea with thee and consider it well? There need
be no haste. Thy return will do."
Much moved, he pressed her hand warmly. Then he carried it to his lips
with the grace of a courtier.