A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia Part 41

"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.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE MIDNIGHT TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY.

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 Cornwallis is 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 s.h.i.+ps. 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 a.s.sure 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 young man. "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 Polly _will_ be 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 had warmed 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 a.s.sisted 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 drumbeat there 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.