A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia Part 13

Primrose caught at Madam Wetherill's gown. Her eyes were l.u.s.trous with tears that now brimmed over, and her slight figure all a-tremble.

"Oh, take me back with you; take me back!" she cried with sudden pa.s.sion. "I cannot like it here, I cannot!"

"Child, it is only for a little while. Remember. Be brave. One's word must always be kept."

"Oh, I cannot!" The small body was in a quiver of anguish, pitiful to see.

Bessy Wardour had loved, too, and then gone away to the man of her choice, if not the life of her choice. But she was much moved by the pa.s.sionate entreaty, and stooped to kiss her, then put her away, saying, "It must be, my child. But thou wilt come back to us."

CHAPTER VIII.

A LITTLE REBEL.

As the carriage-wheels rolled away Primrose burst into a violent paroxysm of weeping. Rachel came forward and took her hand, but it was jerked away rudely.

"Primrose, this is most unseemly," said Lois Henry, looking at her in surprise. "If thou art indulged in such tempers at Madam Wetherill's, it is high time thou went where there is some decent discipline. I am ashamed of thee. And yet it is more the fault of those who have been set over thee."

Primrose Henry straightened up and seemed an inch or two taller for the ebullition of anger. She looked directly at her aunt and the blue eyes flashed a sort of steely gleam. The mouth took on determined curves.

"There is nothing to put me in tempers at home. I like it. I like everybody. And it is the being torn away----"

"But wert thou not torn away from this house last year?"

Primrose was silent a moment. "I hate this being tossed to and fro! And I have learned to love them all at Aunt Wetherill's. I go to Christ Church. I shall never, never be a Quaker. And I am a--a rebel! If I were a man I would go and help them fight against the King."

Lois Henry looked horrified.

"Child, thou art silly and ignorant, and wicked, too. What dost thou know about the King? We do not believe in kings, but we obey those set over us until it comes to a matter of conscience. We leave all these turbulent discussions alone and strive to be at peace with all men. Thou canst not be saucy nor show thy hot temper here."

"Then send me home. Do send me home," said the child with spirited eagerness.

"This is thy home for six months. Rachel, take the bundle up to the little chamber next to that of Faith and put away the things in the cupboard--and take the child with you. Primrose, thou wilt remain there until thou art in a better frame of mind. I am ashamed of thee."

Primrose did not mind where she went. She knew her way up the winding stairs put in a corner off the living room. The house had a double pitch to the roof, the first giving some flat headway to the chambers, the second a steep slant, though there were many houses with nearly flat roofs. This was of rough, gray stone, and the windows small. There was but one, and a somewhat worn chair beside it, the splints sorely needing replacement. A kind of closet built up against the wall, and a cot bed with a blue and gray blanket were all the furnis.h.i.+ng.

The child glanced at it in dismay, not remembering that she had been happy here only such a little while ago. But it seemed ages now, just as she had almost forgotten what had pa.s.sed before. There had been no one to talk over the past with her, and she had missed her tender mother sorely. Children were not considered of much importance then except as regarded their physical welfare and a certain amount of training to make them obedient to their elders. That serious, awesome spiritual life that shadowed so much of childhood under Puritan auspices was not a feature of the more southern colonies. They were supposed to imbibe religious impressions from example. Early in the history of the town there had been some excellent Quaker schools, that of Friend Keith, who sowed some good seed even if he did afterward become a scorn to the profane and contentious, because he started to found a sect of "Christian Quakers," and finally found a home in England and the Anglican Church. But the school flourished without him, and to the Friends belongs the credit of the early free schools. The subtle a.n.a.lysis of later times found no inquiring minds except among a few of the higher scholars. It was not considered food for babes.

Rachel untied the bundle that had been bound up with a stout cord.

"Thou canst put them in the closet in an orderly manner. Then, if thou hast returned to thy right mind, come downstairs."

Primrose looked out of the window without stirring. The great walnut trees were waving their arms and making golden figures on the gra.s.s that ran about everywhere. Patty had told her stories of "little people" who lived in the north of England and Scotland, but they only came out in the moonlight. Ah, these were birds or squirrels--oh! there was a squirrel up in the tree, with his great bushy tail thrown over his back.

And Primrose laughed with tears still s.h.i.+ning on her lashes. Over at a distance was a hen with a brood of chickens, clucking her way along. And there were two pretty calves in an inclosure.

But then there was everything at Aunt Wetherill's, and such rows and rows of flowers. Patty brought them into the rooms in bowls, and the young ladies wore them. What was that? Oh, the little old lady under the tree was walking away----

"Faith," said the clear, calm voice, "leave off thy gardening.

Grandmother is growing restless."

Primrose watched with strange interest. Presently a girl of about her own size walked quietly out to the old lady and took her by the arm, turning her around, and led her back to the house. After that--nothing.

She was almost frightened at the stillness and began to cry again as a sense of loneliness oppressed her. Oh, she must go back! There was something in her throat that choked her. Then a tall figure came across the field in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, and with a great swinging stride.

Suddenly her heart bounded within her body. Like a bird she flew down the stairs, almost running over Chloe, out of the door, skimming along the gra.s.sy way, and never taking breath until two strong arms lifted her from the ground and kissed her, not once, but dozens of times.

"Child, when did you come?"

"Oh, such a long time ago! It must be years, I think. And I hate it, the old house and everything! I cannot stay. Andrew, take me back. If you do not I shall run away. I want Patty and Aunt Wetherill, and little Joe, who is always doing such funny things, and Mistress Kent whips him, but he does them over when she is not there, only she comes suddenly--and the pretty ladies who laugh and talk. It is so dreary here."

She raised her lovely eyes that were to conquer many a heart later on, and the lips quivered in entreaty like an opening rose in the breeze.

"Nay--I am here," he said. "And I love you. I want you."

She looked as if she was studying. A little crease came between her eyes, but it seemed to him it made her prettier than before.

"But why must I come? Why must I stay?"

How could he make her understand?

"And there are some other girls--Faith and the big one. I do not like her."

"But you will. I like her very much."

"Then you shall not like me." She struggled to free herself.

"Thou art a briery little Rose," and he smiled into her eyes and kissed her. "I shall hold thee here until thou dost repent and want to stay with me. Faith is not as sweet as thou and Rachel is too old for caresses. Then I am not sure they are proper."

"When I get as old as Rachel--how old is that? shalt thou cease to care whether I come or not?"

"I shall never cease to care. If I could change places with Madam Wetherill I would never let thee go. But what folly am I talking! It is the law that thou shalt do so."

"Who makes the law? Put me down, Andrew; I feel as if part of my body would be drawn from the other part. Oh," laughing in a rippling, merry fas.h.i.+on, "if such a thing _did_ happen! If there could be two of me!

Rose should be the part with the pink cheeks and the red, red lips, and the bright eyes, and the other, Prim, might stay here."

"Thou naughty little midget! I am glad there cannot be two, if that is thy division. I will take part of the time instead. Little Primrose, it is a sad thing to part with those we love, even for a brief while. The place was not the same when thou went away. And surely, then, thou wert sorry to go."

Primrose was silent so long that he glanced into her eyes. There was such a difference in eyes the young Quaker had learned. The pretty, laughing women on the green at Wetherill farm had said so much with theirs when they had not uttered a word. Rachel's were a dullish-blue, sometimes a kind of lead color, Faith's light, with curious greenish shadows in them. But these were like a bit out of the most beautiful sky.

"It seemed quite terrible to me then," she made answer slowly. "Are people very queer, Andrew? For then I was afraid of Mistress Kent and Aunt Wetherill and everybody, and I wanted to stay here. And now it is so merry and pleasant in Arch Street, and there is the spinet that I sing to, and the lessons I learn, and some books with verses in and tales of strange places and people, and going out to the shops with Patty and watching the boys s...o...b..lling, and learning to slide."

"But thou art not in Arch Street, and there is a farm here. Come, let us find the early sweet apples. I think there are some ripe ones, and thou art so fond of them."

They walked along together. "Still, I do not understand why a thing should be so dear and pleasant and then change and look--look hateful to you!"

There was a pang in the great fellow's tender heart.