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A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia
There was a burst of eager applause.
"It was a quaint old song when I was young," said Madam Wetherill. "Then there are some pretty ones of Will Shakespere's."
"This is what I like," began Primrose.
"Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde."She sang it with deep and true feeling, Lovelace's immortal song. And she moved them all by her rendering of the last two lines in her proud young voice —
"I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not honor more."Then Mistress Kent would have them come out for curds and cream and floating islands, and they planned a chestnutting after the first frost came. They were merry and happy, even if the world was full of sorrow.
Yet it seemed so mysterious to Primrose that the songs should be so much about love, and that stories were written and wars made and kingdoms lost for its sake. What was it? No, she did not want to know, either. And just now she felt infinitely sorry for Rachel. Come what might, Andrew would not marry her. How she could tell she did not know, but she felt the certainty.
"Do not sit there by the window, Primrose, or thou wilt get moon-struck and silly. And young girls should get beauty sleep. Come to bed at once," said Madam Wetherill.
But after all she admitted to herself that Primrose was not urgently in need of beauty sleep.
CHAPTER XIX.
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."
