"I will consider it," Andrew said gravely.
"Lay my counsel to heart for thy mother's sake."
Andrew Henry went on with his work, but he knew a crisis had come in his life. Like many another Friend trained in the ways of peace he had a horror of the cruelties of war, of which he had heard and seen much since the battle of Germantown, and shrank from the thought of taking any human life. On the other hand was the brave and boundless aspiration for liberty and a country of one's own, that had thrilled him when he heard the Declaration of Independence read. And now that France had held out a helping hand, and the English Parliament was divided, the aspect looked more hopeful to him. But for his parents he would go at once and cast in his lot with the heroes at Valley Forge, to whom patriotism was as brave a religion as that of Roger Williams.
And Rachel! No, he could not marry her. All his soul rose up in revolt. Not but what such marriages often occurred among Friends and were reasonably happy. Very few sons or daughters went contrary to the advice of their parents in such matters. And he knew to refuse would be giving up his home.
If Rachel was soft-tongued and attractive like his mother, for Lois Henry was still fair of face, visions of the pretty, graceful maidens in town danced before his eyes. He had seen them on the streets chatting merrily, on the ice flying swiftly like so many gay birds. He had listened to Primrose playing on her spinet and singing pretty old love songs that she did not understand aught of but the rare melody. And he enjoyed Madam Wetherill's house—he had borrowed a few books from the old case, and, plain as he was, he had been charmed by some volumes of verse.
Surely this Master Quarles must have been a man of deep feeling and godliness. And there was one Ben Jonson, and a Master Suckling, though he was not quite sure about his dainty conceits. Queer old books in stained leather covers and print hard to read. Volumes of one John Milton who, he learned, had stood out bravely for liberty.
Madam Wetherill had come upon him one morning browsing deeply in the case of books. "Take anything that pleaseth thee," she said kindly. "They are old things in the Wardour family that came to my father, and he knew many of the scholars of his day. They had not such a fear of learning then. And he knew this Mr. Pope and Addison and many another. And even our master Franklin, with all his many businesses, found time to write verses for his wife, it seems, and with James Logan, has been much in earnest that the town should have some sort of library."
He had carried home a thin, old book and kept it closely in his waistcoat pocket that no one should surprise it, and read it by odd spells. And a volume of John Milton's tracts stirred him mightily.
All these things he would have to give up if he was Rachel Morgan's husband. He felt that he had grown out of the narrow bounds and could never get back into them.
James Henry went into the house. His wife sat alone, knitting.