A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia

"Are you sure there are no bones broken?"

"Not quite. It really was not that kind of a fall. There, she is coming around. Now, Madam Wetherill, here is a pepper-pot of a young soldier that you must cool down with some soothing potions, and I will find the other firebrand. We won't have them shooting each other unless in up and down warfare."

"I think you will bear witness that I was insulted," declared Nevitt.

"And gave an insult. It is about even. No fighting, therefore. Dueling for trifles is cold-blooded murder. I ask it for your father's sake. My little dear, wake up from your nap."

"What is it?" Primrose said in a faint voice. "I feel queer." Then she lapsed into insensibility again.

"Take her upstairs if you will, please. And, doctor, what mystery is there about this mishap? How did it occur? Patty, come hither."

The child opened her eyes again and half smiled.

"She will do now, I think; her pulse is stronger. Here is a small injury; nothing worse than a sprain, I think. She was run down on the ice. Our town goes crazy over a trifle now. The wrist is bruised and sprained. Patty, if you are the owner of so useful a name, undress the child, but I think she hath no broken bones."

The men retired to the adjoining room while Patty alternately scolded and petted her young charge.

"I hope you will reconsider your threat," said the doctor. "There are too many good uses for life to throw it away foolishly. If you are a King's man your life belongs to him, and is not to be wasted in a fit of temper."

Philemon Nevitt flushed with a sense of shame. He had been hotheaded, unreasonable.

There was no serious injury, they found. The bruised wrist was to be bound up with the old-fashioned remedy of wormwood and hot vinegar. And to-morrow Primrose would be all right again.

"Do you know this Allin Wharton?" Nevitt asked of Madam Wetherill.

"I know his family well, only young people have such a way of growing up that one loses track of them. He cannot be more than twenty. And words between you ought not to lead to any serious matter. You should have kept better watch of Primrose in such a crowd."

"I think I ought," he admitted frankly. "And I was hasty." He recalled the fact that he had given the insult, and that the other had the right to seek satisfaction. In London duels were common enough.

But by great good fortune young Wharton called on Madam Wetherill the next morning to inquire about the mishap to Primrose and found her none the worse except a bandaged wrist.

"Is it really true that this fire-eating young captain is – what shall I say? A relative, since this pretty flower is your niece, is she not? And Polly was so taken with him, but for his red coat, that when I began to talk of him I found I had fallen into a hornets' nest. And now, Madam Wetherill, what shall I do? Some hot and hasty words passed between us. Can I safely show the white feather? For no doubt your captain is a fine shot, and, truth to tell, I have some other plans for my life. Since he is even half-brother to Miss Primrose I should not want to shoot him."

Primrose looked up with languid sweetness. She felt rather sore and inert from the shock.

"Why, were you going to shoot him?" she asked.

"We had some words. You know I ran over you. It was very rude and careless. And it might have been much worse, and then I should really have been guilty."

"But you caught the ball! I saw it as I went down. I should not have been so intent and moved a little. But I had not taken off my skates. Brother Phil wanted me to, but I was quite determined to have my own way. And so I went over more easily. It would be very cruel and wicked to shoot each other on account of me."

"And silly, too," said Madam Wetherill sharply. "I shall take the case in my own hands, and arrange matters," laughingly. "I think Captain Nevitt was unmindful for a moment. And there is no great harm done but a sprained wrist."

"And if you had shot Phil – "

"Well, what would you have done?"

"I should never, never want to see you or to think of you again!"

"And if he had shot me?"

"Then, I think, I should send him away and never see him again."

Allin Wharton wondered how it would be in the future if they should meet on the field of battle. For he had just wrung a reluctant consent from his father that he should respond to his country's call, whose need would never be more urgent than now.

"I wonder if you are on the side of the King? It would seem so natural with a brother in the ranks," and he recalled the entertainment in his honor at Madam Wetherill's hands. Polly, his sister, had thought the captain charming.

"I am a rebel," she said proudly. "And I shall never be content until he comes over to the side of the country, to the buff and blue instead of the red."

"Surely, surely; you are a brave, patriotic girl. Wish me success in case I want to join the rebel army," with a half-embarrassed smile. It was not wisdom to confess all one's plans.

She put out her right hand. It was the other that had been hurt. "I wish thee success. That means victory and a safe return," she replied with sweet solemnity.

CHAPTER XIV.

FOR NATIVE LAND AND LOYALTY

They all made so light of the occurrence that a note of apology from Mr. Wharton settled the matter. Captain Nevitt felt in his cooler moments that he had been a little to blame, also hasty and unreasonable. And when, a few evenings after, he met pretty and vivacious Polly Wharton and danced with her, he was very glad the matter had gone no farther.

Primrose was soon well again, but Madam Wetherill would not consent to her going out on the river among the gay crowd, though she felt it a great deprivation. There were two or three quiet spots on the creeks where children could go without harm, and Patty used to take her when Phil was engaged, though Lieutenant Vane was always inquiring if he could not accompany them. He seemed younger and more boyish than the captain, and proved quite delightful to the groups of children, though he admitted laughingly that he found a great many rebels among them.

And so the days went on, one and another indignant over the "rollicking winter" as Mr. Allen termed it, and others storming at General Howe for the wanton destruction everywhere visible. Groves of trees were cut down for firewood, gardens despoiled, and some of the houses taken possession of by the troops were cut and hacked with insulting boasts, and really ruined. Others, Continentals confessedly, railed at Washington for his inaction and supineness.

Howe had planned one surprise and possible capture of the troops, but heroic Lydia Darragh, having overheard the plot, walked to Washington's camp while it was at Whitemarsh, and forewarned them. Finding the rebels prepared with a warm welcome the British retraced their steps. There were small skirmishes outside the lines, and once the impetuous Lafayette advanced, hoping to surprise the enemy, but nothing came of this. Baron Steuben was training the Continentals, as many of them were raw recruits, but, used to hunting as they were, most of the young men had a quick eye and correct aim.

But stories crept in concerning their hardships and sufferings. Every avenue was closely watched that no supplies should be sent directly from the city, but more than once keen wit evaded them. There were passes for the farmers to come in on market days, and many were glad even to supply their enemies for British gold. James Henry thought this no sin, and was given a pass for his son and nephew. Penn had imbibed many of his uncle's beliefs, and took home rather rose-colored accounts of the prosperity of the city. He kept, too, a watchful eye over Andrew, who was more than half suspected of being quite as willing to deal with the rebels, and Madam Wetherill's was considered a rather tempting and unsafe place for sober-going Friends.

But one day he came alone, and made his way to Arch Street, leaving his empty wagon at a nearby tavern that he knew he could trust.

"It is thy cousin," whispered Madam Wetherill, who had some callers. "Take him upstairs in Patty's sewing room."

Primrose ran out with delight in her eyes, but she had grown wise, and, instead of a cry of joy, placed her finger archly on her lips and motioned him through the hall.

"I saw a glimpse of a red coat," he said in a low tone. "I have no desire to run into a hornets' nest. Oh, Primrose, thou hast grown taller since the day thou wert at the farm. Thou wilt soon be a young lady. And the sweetness of childhood will be ended."

"Is girlhood sharp, then, and – and sour?"

Her eyes danced with a merry, mischievous light.

"Nay, sweeter than ever; but it's sweetness is more sacred. And presently comes the time of lovers."

"I shall not have any lovers. They say pert things and talk about pretty faces, or else are silly like Anabella's lover, and forever kissing one's hand. And what think you Lieutenant Vane did when we were going to ride a few days since? There was pretty Mistress Wharton here, and my brother is much taken with her, though she is such a rebel. But I was not allowed to mount the stepping stone, and his hand was placed under my foot. So I pressed down hard, wishing I could squeeze the British blood out of him. They do nothing but run about and have pleasure. But if I were a hundred years old I would have none of them for lovers. I want no one but my brother and my cousin, and sometimes I think thou art dearer, because thou would fight for thy country. And I am ashamed when I think it is his country as well."

"What preachment is the little maid making, Andrew?" said the older voice as the ample figure entered the doorway. "I sometimes think I shall have to keep her shut up in one room, people talk to her so much and spoil her."

"Nay, she is not spoiled," protested Andrew.

"She is a wise little thing, and saucy, too, and often amuses the company by bits of patriotism that are shrewd and wholesome. I think people in this mad revel are forgetting they are Americans and have a country to fight for. And, now, what is the news? There is much dissatisfaction, I hear, with General Washington. It cannot be that they will give up the rallying point, the wisest man of them all, and break up into factions."

"They will not give him up, madam. It is a bitter winter, and the stores at York are sadly depleted. They are watched on every hand. While the town is dancing to British music, and giving aid and comfort to the enemy, our men are living in rude huts that hardly shelter them from the storms and are glad for crusts. But the men will stand by him to the last. It is only idle talk about superseding him. And the men worship Madam Washington and Madam Knox. If you could see them! They minister to the sick, they patch the worn-out clothes and blankets. There is so much need of these things, stockings, and shoes."

"My heart aches for them. I have been gathering a store – " She paused and eyed Primrose.

"You need not be afraid," cried Primrose eagerly. "Is it not my country? And, Cousin Andrew, I have saved some money that my brother gave me to buy frippery and sweetmeats with. And I am knitting socks."

"Thou art a brave girl, and quite able to keep thy own counsel. I have known that aforetime," and he smiled. "Indeed, madam, we could trust her to the uttermost."

"There is quite a store of some things – "

"I will tell thee – there is a false bottom to the wagon that I can raise up after the load is sold. That is my secret. And I can trust him at the Pewter Platter. I have carried more than one lot."

"There is a bagful," pulling it out of the cupboard.

"It will look like a sack of potatoes."

They all laughed.

"There is a blanket in my room. Come thither. Then thou hast little fear? It is a great relief to hear this."

"Madam, such courage must be rewarded. I should want to be with them, but that I think I can be of more service here. When the spring opens – "

He paused and looked from one to the other.

"Wilt thou go, then?" Primrose slipped her hand in his, and though her voice was just above a whisper it was an inspiration to him.

"I shall go, then. Penn can fill my place at home. The country's need will never be greater."

There was another half fear that the loyal soul barely breathed to itself. He must be away before it came to anything beyond the half fear.

The beautiful eyes were grave, and the face had a new solemnity. Her faith inspired him.

"We have not much time to lose," he said. "You see, I must go up the rough Perkiomen road to meet the friend in waiting. We have safe points," and he smiled gravely.

Madam Wetherill pulled out the stout sack and held the top open.

"That will be a godsend. Madam, many a poor fellow's heart will be glad and his toes warm. Heaven reward thee!"

"Heaven has rewarded me in many things. If I could see the end more clearly!"

Primrose brought her little purse with its gilt clasps, and poured out her money. Madam Wetherill added her store to it.

"Art thou sure there is no risk?" she said.

"I shall be careful. One learns much shrewdness."

He shouldered the bag.

"Let me out the side way like any other servant," he said, as he bade them farewell.

"And now, little Primrose," cautioned her Aunt, "thou must keep guard over thy tongue as if with a steel chain, for thy cousin's sake."

"It will never be a traitor tongue," returned the maiden proudly.

Patty had been down in the kitchen helping with some ironing, and now she came up with an armful of stiff skirts. For many women on state occasions wore a big hoop, and others swelled out with starched petticoats.

"I have to go among the stores to find some things that have grown scarce as hen's teeth. And thou hast not been out these two days, Primrose. Thy gallants have deserted thee. What sayest thou to a little run in the brisk air. We shall not go in public places, madam, and she will be safe by my side."

"As she likes. There are plenty of pretty girls in town, perhaps better worth being looked at. And it is early yet."

Primrose enjoyed these small shopping expeditions. There were some very nice places kept by Friends who had been famous in merchandise a few years before, but stocks had sadly diminished and prices gone up. Patty's Yankee blood came to the fore in such times as these, and she had become rather a dread to clerks and shopmen. This part of it amused Primrose very much, as Patty was sure to make a good bargain.

"There seems nothing at all to buy now," she cried in disdain, finding some difficulty in getting what she wanted.

"There will be less yet unless the war ends presently," was the reply of the shopkeeper.

"Then we must turn our old gowns, though in truth there seems no lack of fine attire if one looks at the gay maidens on the street. They seem turned into butterflies. And it must take a mint of money for their wings."

The clerk smiled.

"Let us go round by the creek," pleaded Primrose. "The skaters are so merry."

"If thou wilt not coax to stay more than a moment."

The child promised.

As they were turning a corner a young man eyed them sharply. Primrose did not see him, and Patty hurried on, for he was a stranger.

But he took some long strides and caught up to them.

"It is Mistress Primrose Henry – "

The little girl turned.

"Oh, Patty, it is Miss Polly Wharton's brother," she said, holding out her hand.

"Who runs over thee again," said Patty sharply, for she had heard the story.

"Nay, but it is quite a godsend, as I have been to thy aunt's to say good-by. In an hour's time I shall be on my way to Valley Forge to cast in my lot with the brave fellows there, and I wanted to take thy godspeed with me. I have great faith in it."

"Oh!" Primrose gave a little cry.

"I want thee to be both sorrowful and joyful. Glad that thou hast a patriot friend, and sorry that there should be war. I could not wait any longer and wrung my father's consent from him, though he thinks we are right. And I believe we shall have a great and grand country some day that soldiers will be proud of defending. I go this very night with a party of young men who have planned to elude observation. And so – good-by."

"I wish thee – a safe return."

"Thanks. Keep me in mind when thou prayest for soldiers and victory."

Then he was gone like a flash.

"I have no heart for the skaters now," Primrose said with a sigh. "Let us go home."

The Whartons kept the news very quiet, for it would have made them a marked family to have it bruited abroad just now. But Polly was less gay, and Primrose watched her wonderingly.

And now the long cold winter was drawing to a close. In March came gleams of warmth, welcome sunny days that softened the ice and spoiled skating, and the great Delaware sent floating cakes down to the sea. Buds began to swell and grass to spring up, and there was a great deal of drilling among the troops, and sickness as well.

England began to think that Howe might have captured Washington, cooped up in a desolate wild as they considered it from their imperfect news. The capture of Burgoyne had been an unexpected blow and led to eloquent arguments in Parliament. Mr. Pitt's great speech had reached America, and thrilled every patriotic heart. Leaning on his crutches he had denounced the purchase of German hirelings and brutal savages.

"If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms, never! never! never!" he had exclaimed.

Then King Louis of France acceded to the treaty of alliance and informed the American commissioners "that it was decided to acknowledge the independence of the United States."

Howe was to be recalled and succeeded by Sir Henry Clinton. Even this news inspired the camp at Valley Forge, where the word from France had not yet been received.

At the Henry farm there had been an undercurrent of dissatisfaction. Lois Henry had set her heart on Rachel Morgan as a daughter-in-law, and her husband was nothing loath, since she was a good housekeeper and strong in the faith. It was feared that Andrew was wavering. He never spoke at the meetings, and absented himself from home now and then with no explanations. It was well known that his sympathies were with the army at Valley Forge, and it was surmised in some way that he had a hand in sending supplies. Several of the young men about had joined the army.

"Andrew," his father began one morning when they were sorting seeds of various kinds for planting, "Andrew, I have somewhat to say to thee. Thou art of age, and a good marriage is the best ballast for the journey of life. I am elderly and shall never entirely recover from my accident, but the farm is large, and some day it will all be thine. A wife that we should agree with would pleasure us both fervently. It is true thou wilt be able to marry well in a worldly point of view, but we do not care so much for that. Thy mother and I have decided it would gratify us greatly in the Lord, if thou shouldst see thy way clear to take thy cousin Rachel."

"Rachel!" He had more than half suspected this and dreaded it. There was also a feeling that Rachel cared for him. He could not imagine himself in love with her. Love was something more than a cool, friendly regard, meals properly cooked, and a house well kept; thriftiness and laying farm to farm.

"Well, does it take thee so by surprise? Moreover, we both know she has a deep regard for thee."

"I have not thought of it in that way. I am in no haste to marry," the young man replied hesitatingly, casting about for a more forcible rejoinder.

"A good wife is a good thing, and thou mayst look far and wide and not find thy cousin's equal. She is well grounded in the faith, and I have observed with sorrow thy tendency to stray from the old landmarks, but youth hath such seasons until the carnal will is subdued. Then it will need to make no change in our living. Thy mother and I can grow old in this, the home of our youth, and see our children, and our children's children, mayhap, growing up, well trained in the faith."

"I will consider it," Andrew said gravely.

"Lay my counsel to heart for thy mother's sake."

Andrew Henry went on with his work, but he knew a crisis had come in his life. Like many another Friend trained in the ways of peace he had a horror of the cruelties of war, of which he had heard and seen much since the battle of Germantown, and shrank from the thought of taking any human life. On the other hand was the brave and boundless aspiration for liberty and a country of one's own, that had thrilled him when he heard the Declaration of Independence read. And now that France had held out a helping hand, and the English Parliament was divided, the aspect looked more hopeful to him. But for his parents he would go at once and cast in his lot with the heroes at Valley Forge, to whom patriotism was as brave a religion as that of Roger Williams.

And Rachel! No, he could not marry her. All his soul rose up in revolt. Not but what such marriages often occurred among Friends and were reasonably happy. Very few sons or daughters went contrary to the advice of their parents in such matters. And he knew to refuse would be giving up his home.

If Rachel was soft-tongued and attractive like his mother, for Lois Henry was still fair of face, visions of the pretty, graceful maidens in town danced before his eyes. He had seen them on the streets chatting merrily, on the ice flying swiftly like so many gay birds. He had listened to Primrose playing on her spinet and singing pretty old love songs that she did not understand aught of but the rare melody. And he enjoyed Madam Wetherill's house – he had borrowed a few books from the old case, and, plain as he was, he had been charmed by some volumes of verse.

Surely this Master Quarles must have been a man of deep feeling and godliness. And there was one Ben Jonson, and a Master Suckling, though he was not quite sure about his dainty conceits. Queer old books in stained leather covers and print hard to read. Volumes of one John Milton who, he learned, had stood out bravely for liberty.

Madam Wetherill had come upon him one morning browsing deeply in the case of books. "Take anything that pleaseth thee," she said kindly. "They are old things in the Wardour family that came to my father, and he knew many of the scholars of his day. They had not such a fear of learning then. And he knew this Mr. Pope and Addison and many another. And even our master Franklin, with all his many businesses, found time to write verses for his wife, it seems, and with James Logan, has been much in earnest that the town should have some sort of library."

He had carried home a thin, old book and kept it closely in his waistcoat pocket that no one should surprise it, and read it by odd spells. And a volume of John Milton's tracts stirred him mightily.

All these things he would have to give up if he was Rachel Morgan's husband. He felt that he had grown out of the narrow bounds and could never get back into them.

James Henry went into the house. His wife sat alone, knitting.

"I have spoken to Andrew," he said, "and he will take time to consider. But he did not say aught against Rachel, and he certainly hath no other fancy. I am thankful my brother's daughter is a mere child, since he shows such fondness for her, and thou wert wise, wife, in not having her here. She would have been an unmanageable firebrand, since we could not control her wholly. And I have good hopes for Rachel. We will not delay when the matter is settled, but have them man and wife speedily. Marriage is a cure for many wayward notions."

Rachel had come downstairs in her list boots, that she was fond of wearing indoors, and could make herself. The door was ajar and she had heard all her uncle said. Her heart beat exultantly, and she crept back again softly, with a flush on her face and a pleased light in her eye. For she was very much in love with Andrew, though she did not call her preference by that name. She would give him decorous opportunities to speak.

But he went away and left her sitting alone by the fireside, and poured over John Milton in his cold room. And if she went out to the barn at meal time he made some excuse for not walking back with her.

"Dost thou know," she asked of Penn one day, "where Andrew goes in these curious absences? His father is troubled, but he will not say a word."