A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia, Amanda Minnie Douglas [e novels to read txt] 📗

to take no heed as to what they should say. Yet, amid the many shades of opinion, there had not been much dissension. Of late years not a few had been scandalized by the defection of the Penns and several others from the ways of their fathers, and drawn the cords a little tighter, making the dress plainer and marking a difference between them and the world's people.

"Thou couldst take me to the farm some day when I have learned to ride on a pillion--just for a visit."

How coaxing the tone was! How bewitchingly the eyes smiled up into his!

"Thou wilt stay and be content?" he said persuasively.

"I will think. Content? That is a great thing."

"Yes. And now let us return."

"If there were no one but thou I should be quite happy," she said innocently.

So they walked on. Rachel was standing down at the end of the path with the horn in her hand.

"It is nigh supper time," she said, "and thy father wishes to see thee. To-morrow is market day. Primrose, didst thou put away thy things neatly?"

"I will do it now."

The child ran upstairs.

"A self-willed little thing," commented Rachel, "and she has much temper."

"But a great deal of sweetness withal. And she hath been much petted. She will feel strange for a few days. Be kindly affectioned toward her."

Rachel made no reply. She went to the kitchen where Chloe had her master's supper prepared, a very simple one to-night on account of the fever, and carried it in. Then she blew a long blast on the horn, which she had forgotten in her surprise at seeing Primrose clinging to Andrew's hand.

When Primrose reached the little room her old feelings returned. She frowned on the parcel lying on the floor, as if it were an alien thing that she would like to hide away. There were several shelves in the closet and some hooks at one end. Oh, here were some frocks she had worn last summer, homespun goods! A pair of clumsy shoes, larger than those she had on, and she gave them a little kick.

Grandmother was in the living room, sitting by the window. Very pale and frail she looked.

"Faith," she said. "Faith," in a tremulous voice.

"I am not Faith. My name is Primrose Henry," and the child came nearer with a vague curiosity.

"No, thou art not a true Henry with that trifling name. The Henrys were sober, discreet people, fearing the Lord and serving Him. What didst thou say?" lapsing in memory and looking up with frightened eyes. "Thou art a strange girl and I want Faith."

She began to cry with a soft, sad whine.

"Grandmother, yes; Faith will be here in a minute. This is Andrew's cousin, his dead uncle's child, Philemon Henry."

"And she said her name was--a posy of some sort; I forget. They used to take posies to meetings, sweet marjoram and rosemary. And there was fennel. It was a long while ago. Why did Philemon Henry die?"

Primrose looked at her curiously.

"That was my own father," she said with a feeling that these people had no right of real ownership in him, except Andrew.

Aunt Lois came out, and taking her mother's hand, said, "Come and have some supper." Then, turning to Primrose, "I hope thou art in a better humor, child. It does not speak well for town training that thou shouldst fly in such a passion with thy elders."

"Who was in a passion?" repeated grandmother with a parrot-like intonation. "Not one of the Lord's people I hope?"

"Silence, mother!"

Lois Henry spoke in a low tone but with a certain decision. She was like a child and had to be governed in that manner. They were all taking their places at the table, Lois at the head and Rachel next to grandmother on the other side, then Faith and Primrose. Opposite the workmen were ranged, Andrew with one on either hand. The colored help had a table in the kitchen. This was the only distinction the Henrys made.

Lois Henry accepted the burthen of a half demented mother with a quiet resignation. In her serene faith she never inquired why a capable and devoted Christian woman should have her mind darkened and be made comparatively helpless while physical strength remained, though it was a matter of some perplexity why her sister should have been taken and her mother left.

The master's seat at the foot of the table was vacant. Lois would have it so. It seemed as if they were only waiting for him.

Primrose had turned scarlet at her aunt's rebuke and Faith's scrutiny. After the silent blessing the supper was eaten quietly, Chloe coming in now and then to bring some dish or take away an empty one. And when they rose Faith led her grandmother out under the tree where she spent her half hour before bedtime, unless it rained. Rachel went in to Uncle Henry, and Lois took a careful supervision of the kitchen department, that did miss her steady oversight, though Rachel was very womanly.

Primrose sauntered out and sat down on the doorstep, feeling very strange and lonely, and resenting a little the knowledge of having been crowded out. Penn Morgan gave her a sharp look as he went out with the milking pail. There was still considerable work to do before bedtime.

When Rachel was released she took grandmother to bed. The window had been made secure with some slats nailed across, for she had been known to roam about in the night. Her room opened into that of Rachel's instead of the little hall, and the girl closed the door and put a small wedge above the latch so that it could not be opened.

James Henry had asked in a vague, feverish way if they had allowed Primrose to go back with her aunt.

"Why, no," answered Lois. "Wilt thou see her?"

"No, no! I cannot be disturbed. It is but right that she should come. Thou wilt no doubt find her head full of vagaries and worldliness. What can one do when the enemy sows tares? I cannot resign myself to letting them grow together."

"Yet so the Lord has bidden."

"Nay, we are to do our duty in the Lord's vineyard as well as in the fields. I uproot noxious weeds, or I should have fields overrun. And now that haying has begun I must lie here like a log and not even look out to see what is going on," and he groaned.

"But Andrew is almost like thyself, and Penn this two year hath managed for his mother. We must submit to the Lord's will. Think if I had lost thee, James, and men have been killed by a less mishap!"

James Henry sighed, unresigned.

Faith came out timidly to the doorstep, and looked askance at Primrose. She was not robust and ruddy like Penn and Rachel, and yet she did not look delicate, and though fair by nature was a little tanned by sun and wind. Not that the Friends were indifferent to the grace of complexions, but children were often careless. But even among the straitest there was a vague appreciation of beauty, as if it were a delusion and a snare. And the Quaker child glanced at the shining hair, the clear, pearly skin, the large lustrous eyes, the dainty hand, and the frock that, though plain, had a certain air like Lord's Day attire, and was not faded as an every-day garb would be. Then she glanced at hers, where a tuck had been pulled out to lengthen it, and left a band of much deeper blue, and the new half sleeves shamed the old tops. Her heart was filled with sudden envy.

"Thou art not to live here always," she began. "It is only for a brief while. And I am to stay years, until I am married. Mother's bedding and linen hath been put in two parcels, one for Rachel, who will be married first, as she is the eldest, and the other will be mine."

Primrose stared. Bella talked of marriage, but it seemed a great mystery to Primrose. There was no one she liked but Cousin Andrew, but she liked liberty better, she thought. Why should one want to get married? The pretty young girls who came out to the farm had no husbands. Patty had none and she was talking forever about the trouble they were, and Mistress Janice and Madam Wetherill----

"But if he should be ill in bed and thou had to sit by him like Aunt Lois----"

"Uncle is not ill. He hath a broken leg, and that will mend," was the almost rebuking reply.

"I like the town better. I did not want to come nor to stay, and I am glad I am not to live here always," Primrose said spiritedly. "I like my Cousin Andrew----"

"How comes it that he is _thy_ cousin? My mother was own sister to Aunt Lois, and so _we_ are cousins. Had thy mother any sisters?"

Primrose had not thought much about relationships. Now she was puzzled.

"Our names are alike," after some consideration. "And I was here the first, a long while ago--last summer."

"But I have been here many times. And now I am to live here. Besides thou--thou art hardly a Friend any more--I heard Chloe tell Rachel. Thou art with the vain and frivolous world's people, and Andrew cannot like thee."

That was too much. The dark eyes turned black with indignation and the cheeks were scarlet.

"He does like me! Thou art a bad, wicked girl and tellest falsehoods!"

Primrose sprang up and the belligerents faced each other. Then Andrew came up the path, and she flew out with such force that the milk scattered on the ground, and he had to steady himself.

"Primrose----"

"She said thou didst not like me, and that I am no relation. What didst thou say down in the orchard? And if no one likes me why can I not go back to Aunt Wetherill?"

The usually gay voice was full of anger, just as he had heard it before. Truly the child had a temper, for all her sweetness.

"Children--wait until I carry in the milk, and then I will come out and hear thee."

Chloe took the pail and Penn followed with his.

Andrew came out, and looked at the girls with grave amusement. Primrose was the most spirited. Really, was he being caught with the world's snare, beauty?

"She said you--you did not like me." Primrose's lip quivered in an appealing fashion, and her bosom swelled with renewed indignation.

"I did not say that," interposed Faith. "Not _just_ that. It was about vain and frivolous world's people, and Chloe said she was not a Quaker any more, and I--how canst thou like her, Cousin Andrew?"

"Children, there must be no quarreling. There are many families where there are friends and members of various beliefs. And if we cannot love one another, how shall we love God?"

Faith made a sudden dart to Andrew and caught his hand.

"Thou art not her cousin, truly," she exclaimed with triumph.

"As much as I am thine. Our mothers were sisters. Primrose's father and mine were brothers. That is why our names are alike. And if you are good I shall like you both, but I cannot like naughty children."

"You see!" Primrose said in high disdain to her