A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia

CHAPTER XXII.

POLLY AND PHIL

The city seemed quite dull when the Commander-in-Chief and his staff had departed for Newburgh. The feeling of peace grew stronger every day. The country mansions along the Schuylkill began to take on new life, and the town to bestir itself. True, finances were in the worst possible shape from the over issue of paper money, and in many instances people went back to simple barter.

The Randolphs were very much at home on the farm. Betty's two babies were cunning little midgets, the elder a boy, the younger a girl. Primrose fell very much in love with them. Here was something she need not be afraid of loving with all her might.

"Only I wish I had not been seventeen," she cried pettishly. "I can't see how Polly gets along with so many admirers. I do not want any. There is something in their eyes when they look at you that sends a shiver over me."

"Has Polly so many?" asked madam, rather amused.

"Why, yes. Just a few evenings ago young Mr. Norris came in and then Mr. Ridgway. I thought they quite glowered at each other. And what one said the other sniffed about as if it was hardly worth saying. And Mr. Ridgway thought cards stupid, and Phil grew quite cross and said we would come home. It is very pleasant when there is no one there, we four can agree so well."

"At card-playing?" in a rather diverted manner.

"Not always, not often indeed. We sing and talk and say over verses. There are so many in that old ballad book. But lovers seem always to break one's heart and to love the wrong one. I shall never have a lover. I shall never marry," and her sweet voice has a delightful severity.

Madam Wetherill really laughs then.

"Oh, I am in earnest. You shall see. For when I called on Anabella yesterday she flung her arms around my neck and cried out – 'Oh, Primrose, never, never marry! I wish I could undo my marriage. Men are so selfish and care so little for one after they get them. And they all say the same thing as lovers. Captain Decker was going to die if he could not have me, and he marched off, never writing a word afterward. And so said Mr. Parker, and now he thinks of nothing but his dinner and his pipe afterward, and his nap, and having his clothes all laid out in the morning and brushed, and does not want to go out anywhere, nor have company at home. And the two hateful children brawl all the time, and their father scolds because I cannot keep them in order. 'Tis a wretched life and I hate it!' What think you of that, dear madam?"

"It was not a wise marriage, but I am sorry Anabella is so unhappy. There is plenty of time yet for thee to have lovers, so do not trouble thy golden head."

"Phil has grown so good to take me out everywhere. And we are all going up to the farm some day to get Betty, and then on up the Schuylkill. There are so many beautiful places, and now that May has brought everything out in bloom, all the roads and by-ways are like pictures. And Betty wants to see Valley Forge; so, for that matter, do I. But Phil is worrying about some work Mr. Morris promised him."

"Yes. There are some other things to see to. Mr. Northfield wants to instruct him about the estate, for he is very poorly."

"It seems a shame for me to have so much and Phil nothing," she said tentatively.

"Perhaps there will not be so very much when things come to be settled. Do not be disturbed about Phil. A true man would scorn to take from a woman."

There were many delightful rides in the country about, many historical places on both sides of the river, queer interests at Germantown, where people had gone back to their old employments, and were spinning and weaving and making furniture and carving. There were no lack of reminders of the great battle in some ruins that had never been rebuilt, and men still working cheerfully who had lost an arm or a leg. There was the brave old Chew house that had proved indestructible.

And there was another old house, quite dilapidated now and in charge of an old couple, who, for any trifle people chose to give, would exhibit a curious arrangement of cogs and wheels and mysterious wires that a great many years before a man, named Redhefer, claimed possessed the secret of perpetual motion. It always went day and night, as the neighbors could testify. Men of curious or scientific leanings paid to see the wonderful machine. And one day the secret was found out. There was a curious crank in the loft connected by wires in the wall, and a kind of clock arrangement, that kept it going. This part of the loft being roughly boarded up, and the loft itself kept for mere rubbish, no one suspected it.

There were School Lane, and the Schuylkill falls, really beautiful then, and the lovely Wissahickon, famous for its abundant supply of fish, and places one could ramble about forever. Betty Mason was a charming companion. Philemon often had them all, for Allin was busy with his studies and some plans he nursed in secret, now that Andrew Henry and Vane were both away.

Penn Morgan and Clarissa Lane stood up in meeting one evening and plighted their marriage vows. Rather unwillingly Rachel offered them accommodation in her house, but Penn had fixed up a room in the barn that would do very well until two rooms in the new house were finished, and Clarissa was very happy, and was also very respectful to Aunt Lois. But the great interest had gone out of the old house, and she did not feel at home any more. However, she rested serenely in Andrew's promise that before very long he would have a home to take her to.

Rachel had hoped and despaired alternately. She had a strong, stubborn will under her plain exterior and quiet manner. And she hated not to succeed in anything she undertook. It seemed to her one of the most natural and most reasonable things in the world that Andrew should marry her when his parents strongly desired it. In her estimation it was an absolute sin for him to go against the opinion of the brethren and become a soldier. Yet she was willing to forgive it all and help lead him back in the right way.

It was but justice that Penn should be rewarded for his care and patience. She had not expected so much, but Aunt Lois, left to her charge, would surely have some influence over him, and now that peace was likely to be declared he would return, and his old home might be dear to him. So she would not give up hope, but she did give up her foolish jealousy of Primrose. She had the girl's solemn promise, but what comforted her more than all was the rumor of young Wharton being quite devoted to the girl.

What a summer it was to Primrose! They were out at the farm, but matters were much more quiet. The young women who had been so gay and entertaining were mostly married, and Madam Wetherill was very much engrossed with business matters. She found Philemon Henry very clear-headed. And as he came to know more about the Colonies, and the causes that led to the rebellion, he found there was more injustice on the side of England, but that even there they had not all been of one mind.

So he was being gradually Americanized, though he and Primrose still had disputes. But Polly had such a fascinating fashion of sometimes turning an argument against Primrose, or picking a weak place in hers until one could not help seeing it. And then Primrose would fly into a pretty ruffle of temper with both of them, and presently suffer herself to be coaxed around.

"I suppose I am like April," she said ruefully one morning, when she and Polly had had a disagreement. They were staying at the farm, and the day before they had all been up to Valley Forge, and climbed up the hill and down again. In the early morning both of the young men had gone down to the city.

"Do you think it really can influence anyone?" she inquires with charming gravity. "Then I should suppose a person born in July, under scorching suns, would be fiery-tempered."

"Do you know of anyone born in July?"

"Why, yes," laughing in a dainty fashion. "Betty for one, and she is sweet and good-humored; and there is Cousin Andrew."

"Then the sign does not hold good."

"I don't know where I could have gotten all my temper from. Mamma was lovely, Phil says, and Aunt Wetherill gives her credit for all the virtues."

"I do not think it is real temper. It is love of tormenting – poor Phil."

"And, Polly, you always take his part."

"Yes." Polly's face turned scarlet to the very tips of her ears. Even her fingers showed pink against the white ruffle she was hemming.

"Oh, you don't mean – Polly, I never thought of that!" in great surprise.

"You may think of it now," in a soft, quivering tone. "Though it is almost – nothing."

Primrose threw herself down beside Polly and clasped her knees.

"And he never so much as suggested it to me. He might have – " in a plaintively aggrieved tone.

"Don't be angry. It was just a word, this morning. But I think we both knew. And I loved him long ago, when he was a King's man, and you flouted him so and delighted in being untender, when he loved you so."

"And you would have – do you mean to marry him? and would you have married a – a – "

"No, I shouldn't have married anyone who was fighting against my country. But you really did not do him any justice." Now that Polly was started she rushed along like a torrent in a storm. "He was brought up to think England right, and he knew nothing about the Colonies or the temper and the courage of the people. If you were taken to Russia when you were very little, and everybody was charming to you, you might think what they did was right and nice, and we know they are awfully barbarous! And I thought it real fine and manly in him to prefer the hardships of war to the pleasures in New York. And he never raised his hand but once, and wasn't it queer that he and Allin and Andrew should have been in the mêlée, and now be such good friends? But when he saw that it was Andrew, he was quite horrified. And I think it is very manly of him just to renounce the King for good and all, while there are ever so many Tories right around us sighing again for his rule, and making all sorts of evil predictions. The broadest and finest man I know is Andrew Henry."

"And why did you not fall in love with him?" asked Primrose in great amaze.

"Because, silly child, my heart went out to the other when you tormented him so and gave him such little credit, and could not see the earnest side to him. I should hate a man that could be lightly won over. I like him to look on both sides."

"Was I very cruel?" Primrose was appalled by the charges. "But truly, Polly, when he first came and the British were so lordly, thinking they owned the whole earth, I could not bear to have him claim me and talk of taking me to England and have me go to court and all that;" and Primrose shook her shining curly head defiantly, while her oval cheeks bloomed.

"Surely, Primrose, thou didst not have a Quaker temper either," rejoined Polly laughingly. "I doubt if thou wouldst turn the other cheek even for a kiss, much less a blow."

"The man would get the blow back in short order."

The beautiful blue eyes turned almost black with indignation at the thought, and sent out rays that might have blinded an unfortunate culprit.

The girls looked at each other as fiercely as two hearts brimming over with love, and eyes in an April shower could look, and then they fell on each other's neck and cried in honest girl-fashion for just nothing at all, as girls did a hundred or so years ago.

"And you are quite sure you will never quarrel with me?" besought Primrose. "It must be lovely to have a sister, though Rachel and Faith were not happy. Poor Faith! She hath grown strangely loving, and I know not what she would do if it were not for Aunt Lois."

"Thou art the dearest and sweetest little thing in all the world, and though I may sometimes scold thee for thy naughtiness, I shall always love thee. And now I must sew, for my mother declares I never do anything out here at the farm. And Betty is so industrious, making clothes for the babies."

Then they were still a moment or two while the sunshine rippled all about, for they were sitting out under a tree, and the wind made a pretty dance in the tall grass, and seemed to whisper among the boughs, and push the heads of the shrubs toward each other as if they might be kissing. Overhead the birds sang with wild bursts of melody or went dazzling through the air, cleaving the sunshine with swift wings.

"Perhaps I ought not have told you so soon," said Polly with a sigh. "It was just a word, the sweetest word a man can say, but then I had half guessed it before, and I knew he was waiting to have something to offer me. Mr. Norris does not seem very ready in finding him a place, and old Mr. Northfield takes so much of his time and has to tell him what a fine business man your father was, and how he did this and that, and people entrusted him with their estates and money to buy and sell, and no one ever lost a penny by him. So I suppose we will not be really promised until something is settled, and thou must keep my secret, little Primrose. For I know now that my father would look askance at it. Strange that people years ago could marry without thinking of money, but they are not willing their children shall. And there are men like the great Mr. Franklin, who sometimes hardly knew where to turn for bread, and come up to very luxurious living. But I am young, and Phil is not very old."

"It all seems very strange and sweet," and Primrose threw herself down on the grass and leaned her arms on Polly's knee, while the wind tossed her pretty shining hair about. There was always so much short around the edge of her forehead, and such dainty, mischievous little curls on her white neck when she did it up high on her head. And whatever she did made a picture, she was so full of grace. When Gilbert Stuart painted her as a lovely matron with her baby beside her knee, he said: "What a pity there is no picture of you in your girlhood." He would have been justly proud if he could have painted her in all that grace and loveliness.

"And how can one tell?" she went on dreamily when Polly made no answer. "There are so many things in different ones to like, and you cannot put them all in one man. I love Andrew dearly. He was so good and tender when I first went out to his father's farm, and I was so frightened of Uncle James, and Aunt Lois was so grave and particular. But then Andrew will never dance – fancy the tall soldier! though the great generals do. And he is not over fond of pleasure."

She threw up her pretty head, while a stray sunbeam through the trees danced over it in golden ripples, and her eyes laughed as well as her rosy, dimpled mouth.

There was a sudden start through Polly's nerves, but the gay, light, merry voice went on:

"And he will always be a Quaker, though he went to Christ Church with madam and me. But – don't you know, you can tell with some people, Polly, that things do not quite suit. And he is too grave to frolic, and oh, I do love dancing and frolicking and saucy speeches. A grave life would never suit me. And there is Mr. Hunter with his pink-and-white skin and his ruffles and his velvet clothes, and his clocked silk stockings and shoe buckles that he has polished with a peculiar kind of powder that comes over from France – he told me so," laughing with dainty mirth and mischief. "When he comes to spend the evening I feel as if I should like to tear his finery to pieces as the old strutting cock sometimes gets torn when the others can no longer endure his overbearing ways. And there is Mr. Rittenhouse, who does nothing but talk of the Junta and the learned men of the Philadelphia Society, and the grand new hall they mean to build, and chemistry, as if one was so anxious to know what was in one's body and one's food and the air one breathed. Why, it would make life a burthen. To be sure, Betty says Mr. Franklin's stove is a most excellent thing, ever so much better than a fireplace, and that she will take one to Virginia with her. She had better take Mr. Rittenhouse as well!" and Primrose sent a host of delighted ripples on the sunny air. "Oh, there is Tot!"

Tot was Betty Mason's three-year-old baby boy, and the next instant Primrose had forgotten her admirers and was tumbling in the grass with him.

There were two she had not mentioned: Allin Wharton and Gilbert Vane. But Polly said to her brother shortly after – growing very wise, as young women in love are apt to:

"Be careful not to go too fast, Allin, or you will stumble over a decided no. Primrose has no more idea of love than a two-year-old baby who answers everybody that smiles at him."

"But they haunt Madam Wetherill's in droves," flung out the over anxious young man.

"With the droves one has nothing to fear," counsels the wise young woman. "It is when there are only one or two, and much sitting around in corners and behind curtains and whispering that plots are hatched. And Primrose is fond of having ever so many enjoy her good time and mirthfulness. And, Allin, there is a great deal for you to do before lovemaking begins."

"I'm not so much worse off than Phil Henry."

"But Phil Henry is not dreaming of marrying," returned Allin's sister with dignified composure.

Meanwhile affairs dragged slowly on, but it was evident there were many things to discuss before a treaty of peace would be signed. There were various apprehensions of coming internal trouble. The public treasury was empty, officers and soldiers were clamoring for pay. There were endless discussions as to whether a republican form of government would be best and strongest. Of these Philadelphia had her full share, but there was a strong undercurrent. Had not the famous Declaration of Independence been born here and the State House bell pealed out the first tocsin of freedom? And here Congress had met year after year.

Many of the soldiers had been discharged for wounds and ill health, and on their own earnest appeal. Some officers resigned; among them Andrew Henry, much to the regret of several of the generals.

"If the country needs me again I am hers to command," he said with much earnestness. "But I feel that I am needed at home and there are others who will be glad to fill my place. There are many brave privates who would be made happy by the reward of promotion."

"He is a brave man," said Mrs. Washington, "which is sometimes better than being a brave soldier. If the country had hundreds of such citizens her prosperity would be assured. I am sorry to part with many of them, but we shall all be glad of peaceful times and our own homes."

And so in the early autumn Andrew Henry came home and went back to his Quaker costume.

"Really," declared Mr. Logan, "one might think the elder Philemon Henry had come back to life. The nephew is more like him than the son, though the son is a fine intelligent man and will make an excellent citizen. Then he is a great favorite with Madam Wetherill, who has much in her hands."

CHAPTER XXIII.

PRIMROSE

With all the disquiet it had been an unusually gay summer for Philadelphia, even after the General and Mrs. Washington had bidden it adieu. For in June there had been a great fête given by the French minister in honor of the birth of the Dauphin, the heir to the throne of France. M. de Luzerne's residence was brilliantly illuminated, and a great open-air pavilion, with arches and colonnades, bowers, and halls with nymphs and statues, even Mars leaning on his shield, and Hebe holding Jove's cup. It was seldom indeed that the old Carpenter mansion had seen such a sight.