A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia Part 11

The young damsels were sometimes allowed to go out with their elders and have a peep at the fine things and express their likings. Some of the storekeepers who had laid in abundant stocks chuckled to themselves at the thought that now, when all importations on private account must be stopped, they would stand a better chance.

In the early part of the century there had been an eloquent divine, a Mr. Evans, who had succeeded Mr. Clayton and who somehow had proved very attractive to the Friends. They had flocked to church to hear him, they had even taken off their broadbrims with a timid desire to conform to the ways of the world's people. This had gone on until it awakened a sense of alarm, and at the evening meeting where business might be considered, they had been forbidden to attend the services. So there had grown up a broader feeling, and numbers, while they did not quite like to break with their own communion, were more tolerant, read disapproved books, thought more of education, and began to look with different eyes on the great world, while others, almost horror-stricken at the lat.i.tude, drew their lines tighter.

From Christ Church, as an offshoot, had sprung up St. Peter's. Governor Penn had his pew in the south gallery. Benjamin Franklin and many of the elite thronged the stone aisles with pattering footsteps, in laced coats, queues, and ruffles; the women with their big hats tied under the chin with an enormous bow, a fas.h.i.+on that sent the top up with a great flare where puffs of hair were piled one upon another, or little curls, and stiff brocades that rustled along, little heels that clicked, lace or lawn scarfs coquettishly arranged for summer use, and great fans carried by a ribbon on the arm. In winter there were silk pelisses edged with fur, or a fur or velvet coat. The great distinction was the young girls in much more simple material, with pretty demureness and sometimes longing looks cast at the attire of the young wives or older matrons, and a thought of the time when this glory should be theirs.

Now that one must be for or against, Madam Wetherill, though not aggressive in her opinions, plainly showed on which side her sympathies were ranged.

Wiseacres shook their heads; even among those who came to drink tea in the summer house, made primarily by four large, over-arching trees and a latticework about, against which there was a bench all around, and a great table sufficiently rustic not to mind the summer showers.

There was no spinet to practice on. There were no tutors, but Primrose said a few lessons to Patty, sewed a little, and ran about, her hands and arms encased in long linen mitts that left the fingers free, and a widebrimmed straw hat tied well down, or a Quaker sun bonnet made of reeds and cambric. But there were so many visitors that she was often dressed up, and made much of by the young ladies.

Polly Morris complained that "Bella was in a very poor state and pining for country air. If her purse were long enough she would take her up to Martha Woolcot's, but boarding was high. The Matthews had gone over to the Jerseys. They had been very kind in giving her a fortnight's visit, but now the house would be shut up, and there was only her small cottage, that had been so built around by reason of business that one could hardly find a mouthful of fresh air."

"I did say I would not ask her here again in the summer. Bella is troublesome and forward amid company. But, poor thing! she has only part of her house, as below it is a shop and rented out, and her purse is a slim one at best," said good-hearted Madam Wetherill. "Patty, suppose you write for me, and ask her for a fortnight. She will stay a full month. The children may play about and amuse themselves. 'Tis not that I grudge what she eats and drinks, but I like not to have people take so much by right, and feel that your best is hardly good enough for them, and that you owe them something."

"Yes, madam," replied Patty respectfully, though she set about it rather reluctantly. She was not over fond of Bella.

A week later they came with a chest of attire that did indeed presage a good long stay. Bella was glad enough to meet her compeer.

"For it has been utterly wretched since Aunt Matthews went away," she confessed to Primrose. "We went there so often. And Jonas, the younger boy, has so much drollness in him and tells about pranks at school. And one night he crept out of the window on a shed and slid down and went to a merrymaking at some tavern, where they had rare fun. He did not come in until nearly morning, and his head ached so he was ill the next day.

Aunt Matthews made him a posset."

"And did he confess this wrong to her?" asked Primrose in grave solicitude.

"Confess! What a silly you are, Primrose! That would have spoiled all the fun."

"But it was not right."

"Well--his father would have been severe with him, and when one is sharp it is a pleasure to outwit him. The boys had carried off some gates shortly before, and they had changed the sign of the Jolly Fisherman to Friend Reed's coffin shop, and he never knew it the whole morning and wondered why people stared. Both boys were soundly caned for it, and after all it was only a bit of fun. So then they kept their own counsel.

Jonas knows such pages of funny verses, and there are some in Latin."

"How did you come to know?"

"Oh, he told me!" Bella bridled her head and half shut one eye that gave her an unpleasant look of cunning. "He swore me not to tell and said little girls were often better than big girls."

"And did you swear?" Primrose was horror-stricken.

"Well, I didn't say any wicked words. Some of the great ladies say, 'I swear,' and the men often do, but it doesn't really mean anything when you say it in French."

Primrose asked Patty about it.

"Swearing is swearing, whether you do it in French or Dutch. What put such nonsense in thy head? I think the French a wicked language anyhow, and I don't see why madam wants thee to jabber any such gibberish."

"It's very hard and I don't believe I ever shall," said the child with a sigh.

"The better grace for thee then."

Bella was quite wise and precocious and learning ways of fas.h.i.+on rapidly. She stood a little in awe of Madam Wetherill and could be very demure when she saw that it was the part of wisdom. Occasionally she made Primrose a tacit partner in some reprehensible matter in a way that the child could not protest against. And then Bella laughed at her love for birds and flowers and was always talking about finery and repeating the flattering things that were said to her. And she much preferred listening to the ladies and the gallants to gathering flowers or hearing the birds singing in the trees.

One day Andrew came. Everything was better at Cherry Hill, and her uncle thought now it was time for her to come.

"Why, is your father getting about so soon?" asked Madam Wetherill in surprise.

"Oh, no, indeed! He mends but slowly. Still he wishes to do his duty, and I think he broods over it more than is good for him. So my mother proposed to him that the little maid should be sent for, and he was eager at once. And he wished me to say if it was not too inconvenient to thee I would bring her back. I have a pillion."

"Nay, the child knows so little about riding. I meant to have her instructed this summer. And there would be some garments to take. I cannot get them ready so soon. And I am afraid she will bother thy people sadly. Thou hadst better return and explain this. I will drive over in a few days and bring her. Meanwhile thou art warm and tired.

Rest and refresh thyself a little. I think the children are roaming in the woods, but, like the chickens, they are sure to come home to supper."

Andrew Henry washed his face and hands at the rustic out-of-doors toilette, and little Casper, the black boy, brought him a thick linen towel, with velvet-like softness and smelling of lavender. Then he must have some home-brewed beer to refresh himself, and a plate of Janice Kent's wafers, that were spicy and not over sweet and went excellently well with the beer.

"Dost thou go often to the city?" Madam Wetherill asked. She was thinking how finely this young Quaker was filling out in the shoulders, how well set and soft his brown eyes were, and his cherry lips had fine curves with resolution, yet a certain winning tenderness.

"I go in on market days, twice a week. These are stirring times. There are arguments on every corner of the street, and men almost come to blows."

"The blows may be needed later on. Thou art a peace man, I dare say."

"That is the belief in which I have been brought up," he answered respectfully.

"And I was brought up to honor the King. But if a king listens to evil rather than good counselors--kings were cut off in old times for not dealing justly. I am sure Mr. Pitt hath given excellent advice, but it has not been followed."

"I know so little about it," Andrew returned. "I went once to John Bartram's for some rare cuttings my father desired, and met there the great Franklin, who counseled peace and leniency in England. And they all think now that nothing can stop the war."

"It hath begun already. We must decide which side we shall be on, even if we do not fight. But come down here where smiling peace sits gossiping with fair plenty. I wonder if next summer will give us such a scene?"

She made a gracious little movement, and she took his arm as they began to descend the sloping path. She was a very fascinating woman and now she had resolved to do her best to win over those who stood in uncertainty if she could not move the uncompromising Friend.

It was a pretty scene. After the slope was a level of beautiful sward, with a circle of magnificent trees. Then another varying decline that ended at the river's edge, where rocked two or three gayly painted boats. There were two young fellows in the attire of the gallant of the day lolling on the gra.s.s, and a young man in Quaker garb of the finest sort, sporting silver buckles at his knee and on his low shoes.

The ladies were some of the beauties of Philadelphia, to be famous long afterward. There was the pretty Miss s.h.i.+ppen and Becky Franks, noted for her wit and vivacity; Miss Wharton and Miss Mifflin and the gay Mrs.

Penn.

"I have brought thee a new recruit, Friend Norris," she began smilingly, "since thou art of the same faith and texture. Thy father knew Philemon Henry well, and this is his nephew. Ladies, let me present Friend Henry, since the Quakers will have no handle to their names. Perhaps many of you know Cherry Hill, from whence some of our finest fruit is brought."

The ladies courtesied. Mrs. Penn stepped nearer.

"Yes, I knew thy uncle somewhat and had met his lovely wife, who lives again in the little fairy she left behind. It must have broken her heart to go."

Young Norris came around. Andrew Henry had blushed furiously under the scrutiny of so many lovely eyes, and then, recovering, stood his ground manfully. The scene affected him something as if he had been drinking wine, and yet the impression was delightful.

"He has come to take our little moppet away. She belongs part of the time to her uncle."

"Oh, Madam Wetherill," exclaimed Miss Franks, "put her best gown on Miss Bella and send her by mistake. Wait until dusk and no one will ever know."

"Not even in the morning?" asked Andrew with a touch of merriment, while the others laughed.

"Nay, the best gown is not needed if you want to pa.s.s off someone in her stead," said Norris. "That would be suspected at once. Plan again."

"Oh, I forgot! Little Miss Bella hath so much pretty attire. I do suppose she would be astray in a Quaker frock. Well, what can we do? Mr.