"As little Cupid play-ed,The sweet blooming flowers among,A bee that lay concealedUnder the leaf his finger stung.Tears down his pretty cheeks did streamFrom smart of such a cruel wound,And crying, through the grove he ran,Until he his mammy found."'Mammy, I'm sorely wounded,A bee has stung me on the plain,My anguish is unbounded,Assist me or I die with pain.'She smil-ed then, replying,Said, 'O my son, how can it be?That by a bee you're dying,—What must she feel who's stung by thee?'"
"As little Cupid play-ed,The sweet blooming flowers among,A bee that lay concealedUnder the leaf his finger stung.Tears down his pretty cheeks did streamFrom smart of such a cruel wound,And crying, through the grove he ran,Until he his mammy found.
"'Mammy, I'm sorely wounded,A bee has stung me on the plain,My anguish is unbounded,Assist me or I die with pain.'She smil-ed then, replying,Said, 'O my son, how can it be?That by a bee you're dying,—What must she feel who's stung by thee?'"
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."
"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."
"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.
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 Cornwallisis 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 youngman. "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 Pollywillbe 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 hadwarmed 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 drumbeatthere 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 littleold 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, fromthese 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 ofQuaker 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 affectedhis 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 avoice 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 verycool, and the pulse was gone. That was the end of life, of what might have been love.
Rachel met her cousin in the morning with a strange gleam of fear in her eyes. He was very gentle. After breakfast he had to go into town and report, and get leave of absence, and inform some of the friends, Madam Wetherill among the rest.
He had seen much of men and the world in the last few years, and learned many things, among others that a life of repression was not religion. And he knew now it was the love of God, and not the estimate of one's fellowmen, that did the great work of the world and smoothed the way of the dying. From henceforth he should live a true man's life. But his mother would be his first care always.
Some days afterward Mr. Chew sent for him and gave him the will.
"I did not make it," he explained. "I refused to write out one that I considered unjust, and later on he brought this to me for safe keeping. I sincerely hope it is not the same. Take it home and read it, and then come to me."
It was made shortly after Andrew had joined the army, and the reasons were given straightforwardly why he left his son Andrew Henry the sum of only one hundred dollars. In consideration of the sonlike conduct and attention to the farm, and respect shown to himself, and Lois, his wife, the two great barns and one hundred acres of land, meadow and orchard, west of the barns, to Penn Morgan, the son of his wife's sister. To Rachel Morgan, for similar care and respect, the dwelling house and one barn and one hundred acres, and this to be chargable with Lois Henry's home and support. Another hundred and twentyacres to Faith Morgan, and the stock equally divided among the three. The moneys out at interest to be his wife's share.
Lois Henry went to her son.
"I am sorry," she said. "He repented of something, and I think he meant to have the will destroyed. He was very stern after thou didst leave, and sometimes hard to Penn, who had much patience. I think his mind was not quite right, and occasionally it drowsed away strangely."
"He was glad to see me. That was like a blessing. And we came to look at matters in such different lights. He was home here with the few people who could not see or know the events going on in the great world. I do not think Mr. William Penn ever expected that we should narrow our lives so much and take no interest in things outside of our own affairs. And when one has been with General Washington and seen his broad, clear mind, and such men as General Knox, and Greene and Lee and Marion, and our own Robert Morris, the world grows a larger and grander place. I shall be content with that last manifestation, and I have thee and thy love. Sometime later on we will have a home together," and the soldier son kissed his mother tenderly.
Penn stopped him as he was walking by the barns and looking at the crops.
"Andrew," he began huskily, "of a truth I knew nothing about the will. I had no plan of stepping into thy place. I had meant, when I came of age, to take my little money and buy a plot of ground. But thy father made me welcome, and when thou wert gone stood sorely in need of me."
"Yes, yes, thou hadst been faithful to him and itwas only just to be rewarded. I have no hard feelings toward thee, Penn, and I acquit thee of any unjust motive."
Penn Morgan winced a little and let his eyes drop down on the path, for an expression in the clear, frank ones bent upon him stung him a little. How much had the suggestion he had given had to do with his cousin's almost capture and enlistment? He knew his uncle would grudge the service done to the rebels, and he considered it his duty to stop it. He fancied he took this way so as not to make hard feelings between Andrew and his father. He did not exactly wish it undone, but there was a sense of discomfort about it.
"There were many hard times for me thou knowest nothing about," said Penn, with an accent of justification. "He grew very unreasonable and sharp—Aunt Lois thinks his mind was impaired longer than we knew. I worked like a slave and held my peace. It is owing to me that the farm is in so good a condition to-day, while many about us have been suffered to go to waste. I have set out new fruit. I have cared for everything as if it had been mine, not knowing whether I should get any reward in the end. And though Rachel hath grown rather dispirited at times and crossed my wishes, she had much to bear also. I should have some amends besides mere farm wages."
"I find no fault. It must please thee to know thou didst fill a son's place to him. And a life like this is satisfactory to thee." The tone was calm.
"I could not endure soldiering and vain and worldly trappings," casting his eye over his cousin's attire. "And I care not for the world's foolish praise. A short time ago it was Howe and the King, now it is Washington, and Heaven only knows what isto come. I have this two years been spoken to Clarissa Lane and shall take my own little money and build a house for her, and live plainly in God's sight."
"I wish thee much happiness. And never think I shall grudge thee anything."
"And I suppose thou wilt become a great military man! Thou wert hardly meant for a Quaker."
"I shall serve my country while she needs me," was the grave reply.
As for Rachel, she had no mind to give up all for lost. Even now she could depend upon Primrose to keep her promise. She had the old house that was dear to Andrew, and she had his mother in her care. When the war was really ended and the soldiers disbanded, he must settle somewhere, and so she took new courage. If she did not marry him there were others who would consider her a prize. But she knew she should never love any man as she could love Andrew Henry.
There were times when she hated herself for it. And now that he had come, gracious, tender, and with that air of strength and authority that always wins a woman, fine-looking withal, and clinging to some Quaker ways and speech, her heart went out to him again in a burst of fondness.
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 admirationshone 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 thetremulous 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—yourcousin," 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 AmericanKing 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 André 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 hissweet 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 wasmysoldier," 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 notIwho 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 yethe holds no malice. What a big heart he has! I do not believe in Henry malice."
"Andyouwill 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."
"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 onWednesday 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 thedeep 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: