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

had been despoiled and he rendered homeless, her husband had been killed in battle, and they had made their way northward, hoping to find a friend in Madam Wetherill.

Nor were they mistaken. There were the two elderly people, Betty and her babies, and a younger sister. The only son was in General Greene's army.

"There is plenty of room at the farm," said Madam Wetherill. "I am not as young as I used to be and it gets a greater care year by year, and I think I grow fonder of the city. It would be well to have someone there all the time, and Cousin Randolph understands farming."

"And this is the shy little yellow-haired Primrose, grown up into a pretty girl," Betty said in surprise. "I remember you were full of those quaint Quaker 'thees and thous.' But certainly you are a Quaker no longer, with that becoming attire? Oh, child, be glad you have not supped sorrow's bitter cup."

There was so much on hand getting them settled that Primrose could not go to Uncle Henry's with her blessed news at once. It was always pain as well as pleasure. Sometimes she could hardly find a free moment with Aunt Lois, so jealously did Rachel watch them. And though Primrose had planned talks with Uncle James they invariably came to nought, for she could never surprise him alone, and he was so hard of hearing she knew there would be listeners.

Faith was upstairs spinning on the big wheel, and her window overlooked the stretch of woods that shut out the road altogether. Aunt Lois sat knitting, Rachel was making some stout homespun shirts for winter wear, and Uncle James was lying on the bed asleep.

"Thou hast something else in thy face," began Aunt Lois presently, when Primrose had recounted the misfortunes of the Randolphs and the shelter that had opened before them. "Hast thou heard from----"

"I have seen him!" Primrose clasped both hands and the knitting fell to the floor.

"Seen him! Oh, child! Hath he been here?"

Her voice quavered and her eyes filled with tears.

Rachel picked up the knitting with a frown. The needle had slipped out half-way.

"Thou mightst have shown a little more care, Primrose," beginning to pick up the stitches.

"Tell me, tell me! Is he here now?"

"He came with the French soldiers. Oh, how fine and gallant they were! He could only stay one night, for the Commander had some special business for him at the seat of war. All the troops are going on, and it is hoped that, when the Continentals win, this will lead to peace."

"When they win," said Rachel with doubtful scorn. "It seems as if they cared for nothing but going on and on like quarrelsome children, and no good comes of it. No good can come of such an evil as war. And if you sell anything, here is all this wretched, worthless money! I had rather have good British gold."

"So Arnold thought." Primrose's mirth-loving eyes danced with a sense of retaliation. "There has been some French gold quite as good, since it has clothed our troops and given them many comforts. And, Aunt Lois, he is well and splendid, the picture of my own father, Aunt Wetherill thinks. He sent so much love, and if the war should end he will come home for good. He is not fond of battle, but you may know how good a soldier he has proved, since he has gone from private to major."

Aunt Lois looked up with tender, longing eyes. "Then I shall see him," she said. "He will not stay away?"

"Oh, surely, surely! If there had been time he would have come now. And oh, Aunt Lois, up there on the Hudson we almost lost him. There was a sudden surprise, and, but for young Allin Wharton, it might have gone hard indeed with him."

She could not confess that it was a kindred hand raised against him, though her quick flush betrayed some deep feeling.

"Heaven be thanked! And the young man?"

"He was wounded then and again later on, but has been brought home and is mending. And surely God was watching over Andrew, for he had no hurt whatever. And I feel sure now he will come back safe to us."

Rachel Morgan's face worked with some deep passion, and grew darker under the sunburn. The young girl's delight angered her. Perhaps, too, the beauty and grace, the cloth habit fitting her slim, elegant figure, the beaver hat that looked so jaunty and had in it some long cock's plumes, quite a new fashion. Then there was the trim foot with its fine shoe and steel buckle, all gauds of worldliness to be sure, but they would attract a man's eye.

Rachel had not been beautiful in her childhood, but the tender grace that softens so many faces had not been allowed its perfect work on hers. She looked older now than her years and there were hard lines that some day would be avarice, uncharity, and other evil traits. Then this girl was an idle butterfly, frisking from one folly to another in a wicked and worldly fashion, even despising the plain faith her father had intended she should follow.

"Oh," exclaimed Aunt Lois, after a blissful communing with her soul in very thankfulness, "thou puttest new life into me. I can feel it run through like the breeze in the grass. Sometimes I think with the wise man that few and evil have been my days, and I would not have them unduly prolonged, but to see my son again, my dear son!"

The smile was so sweet that Primrose, leaning over, kissed into it and then both smiled again, while there were tender tears in the eyes of both.

"And now I must go," Primrose said presently, "but I will try to come sooner again. It is such fine weather that the orchards are full of fruit and the wild grapes and the balsams fill the air with fragrance. Oh, Aunt Lois, God must have made such a beautiful world for us to enjoy. He cannot mean to have us frown on this, and wait until we get to heaven, for then the smiles and joy will not come so readily."

"It is flippant for thee to talk of heaven this way. We do not go dancing into it. We must fashion our lives on more godly things," said Rachel rebukingly.

Primrose made no reply, but drew on her glove.

"Then I shall not see Faith," she said rather disappointedly as she rose.

"Where is Faith?" Aunt Lois looked up.

"She idled so much yesterday that she did not finish her stent, and she has a larger share this afternoon."

Rachel followed the girl out. The horses stood in the shade and Jerry had been lounging on the grass, but he sprang up and doffed his hat to his young mistress.

"I have something to say to thee." Rachel took her arm and turned her away from the house and Jerry as well. "Dost thou truly think Andrew will return?"

"He will return." There was an exultant ring of hope and youth in the sweet voice that smote the listener.

"And then," very deliberately, as if her words meant to cut something, they were so sharp and cold, "then you will marry him."

"Marry him? I?"

There was indignation in every line of the face and Rachel noted it with secret joy, though her countenance remained unmoved.

"Yes," persistently. "Thou hast always been fondling about him and kissing him, and such foolishness wins a man when plain common sense gets flouted."

"I have never thought of such a thing," and her face was full of surprise, though the lovely color kept coming and going, and her eyes flashed a little. "I do not want any lovers, and as for husbands, nothing would tempt me to change with Mistress Anabella. And there is poor Betty Randolph, full of sorrow. No, I mean to be like Madam Wetherill, who can always do as she pleases."

"Silly child! I should be sorry indeed for the man who took thee. But Madam Wetherill was married once."

"And her husband died. No, I cannot bear death and sorrow," and she gave a quick shiver.

"Thou hast made trouble enough for Andrew. First it was getting away and mooning over books and strange things, instead of useful ones. Then it was passing food and clothing out to Valley Forge, and running his neck in a noose. Then it was going to war, for which his father disowned him."

"Nay, not that altogether." She looked steadily at Rachel, whose eyes fell a little.

"Yes, if he had not gone he would not have been disowned. It was through thy preachment. Thou hast cost him trouble everywhere. And now, if he should return, thou canst make or mar again."

"I shall not mar," proudly.

"It stands this way. Thy mother was one of the smiling, tempting, deceitful women, who can twist a man about her finger. She spoiled thy father's life and would have won him from the faith----"

Primrose's slim form trembled with indignation and Rachel cowered beneath the flashing eye.

"That is a falsehood, Mistress Rachel, and God will surely mark thee for it! There is an old journal of my father's that, beside business dates and comments, has bits of sweetness about her, and how he thanks God for her, and that she is the sunshine of his life, and if he were to lose her, all would be darkness. Madam Wetherill is to give it to me when I am quite grown."

"I but repeat what I have heard Uncle James say. And if thou wert to marry Andrew he would forbid him the house as much as he did when Andrew became a soldier. He does not approve of thee nor thy tribe."

The hot blood stained the girl's cheeks. Yes, she had long mistrusted that her uncle did not like her, and that he fancied in some way Madam Wetherill had gotten the better of him.

"I am not going to marry Andrew--nor anyone. I love him very much, but I know it is not in that way. And my own life is growing exceeding sweet, day by day. It is like a garden full of wonderful flowers that no one can guess until they bloom."

"Then thou wilt not hinder him again? His father's heart hath grown tender toward him, and I can persuade if I have this surety to go upon."

"And then--dost thou hope to marry him?"

"I hope for nothing, Miss Impertinence. I only want that Andrew shall be restored."

A willful mood came over Primrose. What if she did not promise?

"There is little dependence on thee, I see. I was a fool to think it. Girls like thee play with men's hearts."

Rachel turned away with a bitter curl of the lip, and held her head up determinedly.

"Oh, Rachel, if that will help, I promise. If thou wilt do thy best to soften Uncle James. I care not so much that he shall regard me with favor. I have many to love me."

Rachel turned back a step, caught the round arm and held it up.

"Promise," she cried, almost fiercely.

"I promise," Primrose said solemnly.

"That is in the sight of God. Thou wilt be a very wicked girl to break it."

"I shall not break it. Oh, Rachel, do thy best