I was to have come home earlier, but in June I got letters from my father instructing me to await a vessel which would reach Jamaica in June, and sail thence to Madeira. There were careful instructions given as to purchase of wines, and the collection of delayed payments for staves, in the wine islands.
I did not like it, but I was young, and to travel had its charm after all. Had there been no Darthea, I had been altogether pleased. The excuse of this new business made me smile. It was clear my father was using that pretext to keep me out of the mischief which was involving most young men of courage, and creating in them a desire to train as soldiers in the organisations which were everywhere being formed. He was unwise enough to say that my cousin, from whom he had heard, sent his love, and was glad I was out of our disloyal and uneasy country.
There was no help for it, and thus it chanced that not until September did I see the red brick houses of my native city. Late news I had almost none, for none reached me, and I was become wild with desire to learn what the summer months had brought forth.
On the fifth, day of September, 1774, at seven in the morning, I saw my Jack in a boat come out to meet me as we came to anchor in the stream. He looked brown and handsome, reddening with joy as he made me welcome. All were well, he said. I did not ask for Darthea.
My father was on the slip, and told me that business might wait until the evening. My aunt had not been well, and would see me at once. This really was all, and I might have been any one but his son for what there was in his mode of meeting me. I walked with Jack to my Aunt Gainor’s, where he left me. I was pleased to see the dear lady at her breakfast, in a white gown with frills and a lace tucker, with a queen’s nightcap such as Lady Washington wore when I first saw her. Mistress Wynne looked a great figure in white, and fell on my neck and kissed me; and I must sit down, and here were coffee and hot girdle-cakes and blueberries, and what not. Did I like Jamaica? And had I fetched some fans? She must have her choice; and rum, she hoped, I had not forgot. How well I looked, and my eyes were bluer than ever! Was it the sea had got into them? and so on.
I asked about the Congress, and she was off in a moment. Mr. John Adams had been to see her, and that cat, Bessy Ferguson, had been rude to him. An ill-dressed man, but clear of head and very positive; and the members from Virginia she liked better. Mr. Peyton Randolph had called; and I would like Mr. Pendleton; he had most delightful manners. Mr. Livingston had been good enough to remember me, and had asked for me. He thought we must soon choose a general, and Mr. Washington had been talked of.
“Has it come to that?” said I.
“Yes; all the North is up, and Gage has more troops and is at work intrenching himself, he who was to settle us with three regiments. Mrs. Chew was here, and behaved like the lady she is. But they are all in a nice mess, Master Hugh, and know not what to do. I hate these moderates. Mr. Washington is a man as big as your father, and better builded. I like him, although he says little and did not so much as smile at Bessy Ferguson’s nonsense. And Darthea—you do not ask about Darthea. She is playing the mischief with Jack and her captain. She will not let me talk about him. He is in Boston with Mr. Gage, I hear. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“How could I, Aunt Gainor? Thou—” and I laughed.
Then she became grave. “You will have to declare yourself and take sides; and how can I counsel you to resist your father? You must think it over and talk to Mr. Wilson. He is of the Congress. Poor Mr. Wetherill the Meeting has a mind to bounce, and he takes it hard. Come back at eleven, and we will go to Chestnut street, where they meet, and see the gentlemen go into the Carpenters’ Hall. I came to town on purpose. And now go; I must dress.”
At half-past ten—my aunt very splendid—we drove down Second street and up Chestnut, where was a great crowd come to look on. Dr. Rush, seeing my aunt’s chariot, got in at Second street, and, being one of the members, enabled us to get near to Carpenters’ Alley, where at the far end, back from the street, is the old building in which the Congress was to be held. Jack met us here, and got up beside the coachman. I think none had a better view than we. Andrew Allen came to speak to us, and then Mr. Galloway, not yet scared by the extreme measures of which few as yet dreamed, and which by and by drove these and many other gentlemen into open declarations for the crown.
I saw James Pemberton looking on sadly, and near him other Friends with sour aspects. Here and there militia uniforms were seen amid the dull grays, the smocks of farmers and mechanics, and the sober suits of tradesmen, all come to see.
“The Rev. Dr. Duche passed us,” says Jack, whom now I quote, “in a fine wig and black silk small-clothes. He was to make this day the famous prayer which so moved Mr. Adams.” And later, I may add, he went over to the other side. “Soon others came. Some we knew not, but the great Dr. Rush, pointed out such as were of his acquaintance.
“‘There.’ he said, ‘is Carter Braxton. He tells me he does not like the New England men—either their religion or their manners; and I like them both.’ The doctor was cynical, I thought, but very interesting. I set down but little of what he said or I saw; for most of it I forget.
“‘There Is the great Virginia orator, Mr. Patrick Henry,’ said the doctor. He was in simple dress, and looked up at us curiously as he went by with Pendleton and Mr. Carroll. ‘He has a great estate—Mr. Carroll,’ said the doctor. ‘I wonder he will risk it.’ He was dressed in brown silk breeches, with a yellow figured waistcoat, and, like many of them, wore his sword. Mr. Franklin was not yet come home, and some were late.
“Presently the doctor called, and a man in the military dress of the Virginia militia turned toward us. ‘Colonel Washington,’ said our doctor, ‘will permit me to present him to a lady, a great friend of liberty. Mistress Wynne, Colonel Washington.’
“‘I have already had the honour,’ he said, taking off his hat—a scrolled beaver.
“‘He is our best soldier, and we are fortunate that he is with us,’ said the doctor, as the colonel moved away.”
The doctor changed his mind later, and helped, I fear, to make the trouble which came near to costing Conway his life. I have always been a great admirer of fine men, and as the Virginia colonel moved like Saul above the crowd, an erect, well-proportioned figure, he looked taller than he really was, but, as my aunt had said, was not of the bigness of my father.
“He has a good nose,” said my Aunt Gainor, perhaps conscious of her own possessions in the way of a nasal organ, and liking to see it as notable in another; “but how sedate he is! I find Mr. Peyton Randolph more agreeable, and there is Mr. Robert Morris and John Dickinson.”
Then John Adams went by, deep in talk with Roger Sherman, whom I thought shabbily dressed; and behind them Robert Livingston, whom my aunt knew. Thus it was, as I am glad to remember, that I beheld these men who were to be the makers of an empire. Perhaps no wiser group of people ever met for a greater fate, and surely the hand of God was seen in the matter; for what other colony—Canada, for example,—had such men to show? There, meanwhile, was England, with its great nobles and free commons and a splendid story of hard-won freedom, driving madly on its way of folly and defeat.
Of what went on within the hall we heard little. A declaration of rights was set forth, committees of correspondence appointed, and addresses issued to the king and people of Great Britain. Congress broke up, and the winter went by; Gage was superseded by Sir William Howe; Clinton and Burgoyne were sent out, and ten thousand men were ordered to America to aid the purposes of the king.
The cold season was soon upon us, and the eventful year of ‘75 came in with a great fall of snow, but with no great change for me and those I loved. A sullen rage possessed the colonies, and especially Massachusetts, where the Regulation Acts were quietly disregarded. No counsellors or jurymen would serve under the king’s commission. The old muskets of the French and Indian wars were taken from the corners and put in order. Men drilled, and women cast bullets.
Failing to corrupt Samuel Adams and Hancock, Gage resolved to arrest them at Concord and to seize on the stores of powder and ball. “The heads of traitors will soon decorate Temple Bar,” said a London gazette; and so the march of events went on. In the early spring Dr. Franklin came home in despair of accommodation; he saw nothing now to do but to fight, and this he told us plainly. His very words were in my mind on the night of April 23d of this year of ‘75, as I was slowly and thoughtfully walking over the bridge where Walnut crossed the Dock Creek, and where I stayed for a moment to strike flint and steel in order to light my pipe. Of a sudden I heard a dull but increasing noise to north, and then the strong voice of the bell in the state-house. It was not ringing for fire. Somewhat puzzled, I walked swiftly to Second street, where were men and women in groups. I stopped a man and asked what had chanced. He said, “A battle! a battle! and General Gage killed.” Couriers had reached the coffee-houses, but no one on the street seemed to have more than this vague information; all were going toward Chestnut street, where a meeting was to be held, as I learned, and perhaps fuller news given out.
I pushed on, still hearing the brazen clamour of the bell. As I crossed High street I came upon James Wilson and Mr. Graydon. They stopped me to tell of the great tidings just come by swift post-riders of the fight at Lexington. After giving me the full details, Wilson left us. Said Graydon? very serious: “Mr. Wynne, how long are you to be in deciding? Come and join Mr. Cadwalader’s troop. Few of us ride as well as you.”
I said I had been thinking.
“Oh, confound your thinkings! It is action now. Let the bigwigs think.”
I could not tell a man I then knew but slightly how immense was my reluctance to make this complete break with the creed of my father, and to absolutely disobey him, as I knew I must do if I followed my inclinations; nor did I incline to speak of such other difficulties as still kept me undecided. I said at last that if I took up arms it would be with Macpherson or Cowperthwaite’s Quakers.
“Why not?” he said. “But, by George! man, do something! There are, I hear, many Friends among the Cowperthwaite Blues. Do they give orders with ‘thou’ and ‘thee,’ I wonder?”
I laughed, and hurried away. The town was already in a state of vast excitement, women in tears, and men stopping even those they did not know to ask for news. I ran all the way to my aunt’s, eager to tell it. In the hall I stood a minute to get my breath, and reflect. I knew full well, as I recognised various voices, that my intelligence would mean tears for some, and joy for others.
My long-taught Quaker self-control often served me as well as the practised calm I observed to be the expression assumed by the best-bred officers of the army on occasions that caused visible emotion in others. I went in quietly, seeing a well-amused party of dames and younger folk, with, over against the chimneypiece, the great Benjamin Franklin, now in the full prime of varied usefulness, a benevolent face, and above it the great dome of head, which had to me even then a certain grandeur. He was talking eagerly with Mistress Wynne—two striking figures.
Mr. Galloway was in chat with his kinsman, Mr. Chew. The younger women, in a group, were making themselves merry with my friend Jack, who was a bit awkward in a fine suit I had plagued him into buying. And what a beauty he was, as he stood, half pleased with the teasing, blushing now and then, and fencing prettily in talk, as I knew by the laughter! At the tables the elder women were gambling and intent on their little gains and losses, while the vast play of a nobler game was going on in the greater world of men.
To my surprise, I saw among the guests an English lieutenant. I say “to my surprise,” for the other officers had gone of their own accord, or had been ordered to leave by the Committee of Safety. This one, and another, were, as I learned afterward, on their way through the town to join General Gage. There was evidently some dispute as to the cards. I heard high-pitched voices, and “spadille,” “basto,” “matador”—all the queer words of quadrille, their favoured game.
The lieutenant was bending over Mrs. Perguson’s chair. He was a fellow I had seen before and never liked, a vulgar-featured man, too fat for his years, which may have been some twenty-eight. He played the best hand of all of them, and, as my aunt declared, that was quite enough; for the rest she could keep any man in order. I held back in the gloom of the hall, looking at their busy gaiety, and wondering what they would say to my news.
As I went in I heard Woodville, the lieutenant, say, “The king—play the king, Mrs. Ferguson.”
“No advice!” cried Mrs. Galloway.
“But I am betting,” said he. “The king forever! We have won, madam. The king is always in luck.”
I could not resist saying, “The king has lost, ladies.”
My aunt turned, and knew I meant something. I suppose my face may have been more grave than my words. “What is it, Hugh?”
“I have strange news, Aunt Gainor.”
“News? and what?” As she spoke the talk ceased, and every one looked up.
“There has been a fight at Lexington. Major Pitcairn is beat, and my Lord Percy. The farmers were all up to hinder them as they were on their way to seize our powder, and to take Mr. Hancock. The king has lost some three hundred men, and we under a hundred.”
“Good heavens!” said Mr. Galloway. “But it cannot be true.”
A pause came after, as I said there was no doubt of it.
Dr. Franklin asked if I was sure. I said, “Yes; I have it of James Wilson, and the town is already in an uproar over it.” The great philosopher remained deep in thought a moment, while the women sat or stood in fear, or whispering excitement. At last he said he must go, and that it was the beginning of war, and welcome too. Then he bowed gravely and went out. As he left, the stillness which had prevailed for a time was broken.
A dozen questions fell on me from all sides. I could only repeat my story, as Jack went by me to go out and hear, if possible, more of the news than I had to tell.
At last Mr. Chew said thoughtfully, “If it be true, it is a sad business; but, really, how can it be, Hugh? How could a lot of farmers, without good arms and discipline, put to rout a body of trained men, well armed?”
“I think,” said Galloway, “we shall have quite another version to-morrow. How does it strike you, Mr. Woodville?”
“Oh, quite absurd,” said the officer. “You may reassure yourselves, ladies; such a loss, too, would be incredible, even in regular war. I think we may go on with our game, Mrs. Ferguson.” He was very pompous, but none seemed inclined to take his advice.
“And yet I don’t like it,” said a lady of the Tory side.
“And I do,” said Mistress Wynne. “It is as good news as I have heard this many a day.”
“It is nonsense!” said the officer; “sheer nonsense! You have strange notions, madam, as to what is good news. It is only another rebel lie.”
“I think not,” said I, venturing to add that men who could kill squirrels would rarely miss a man, and that many of the older farmers had fought Indians and French, and had, I suspected, picked off the officers.
“How horrid!” said Darthea.
Had a stray bullet found my cousin I should not have grieved profoundly.
“You see where all your neutrality and loyalty have brought you,” said Mistress Wynne. “I wish King George were with Mr. Gage; he might learn wisdom. ‘T is but the beginning of a good end.”
“May I remind you,” said Woodville, very red in the face, “that I am his Majesty’s officer?”
“No, you may not remind me. A fig for his Majesty!” cried my aunt, now in one of her tantrums.
“Shame!” cried Mrs. Ferguson, rising, as did the rest, some in tears and some saying Mrs. Ferguson was right, or the Lord knows what—not at all a pleasant scene; the men very silent, or vexed, or troubled.
My Aunt Gainor, as they filed out, made them each her finest curtsey. Darthea stood still, looking grave enough. Mr. Woodville, the lieutenant, lingered, made his adieus very decently, and went out, I showing him the way. On the step he said: “I do not quarrel with women; but I have heard that in Mistress Wynne’s house, to which, as an officer of his Majesty, I cannot submit.”
“Well?” I said; and my abominable propensity to grin got the better of me.
“You seem amused, sir,” he said.
I was by no means amused.
“I suppose you are responsible,” he added. “Miss Wynne might have better manners, and her nephew more courage. However, I have said what ought to be enough with English gentlemen. Good-evening.”
“I have half a mind to give thee a good honest thrashing,” said I.
“I dare say. You are big enough, Master Quaker; but I presume that about the weapons common among men of honour you know as much as I know of making horseshoes.”
I was now cool enough and angry enough to have killed him. “Thy friend can find me here,” said I. “I trust I shall be able to satisfy thee.”
With this he went away, and I stood looking after his stumpy figure. I was again in a broil, not of my making; just a bit of ill luck, for here was a nice business. I went in, and was caught on my way upstairs by my Aunt Gainor, who called me into the sitting-room.
Still too furious to be prudent, she broke out before Darthea. “Insolent idiots! I hope I made Mr. Galloway understand, and the rest of them too! I trust Bessy Ferguson will never darken my doors again!” She walked up and down, and at last upset a big mandarin, who came head down on the hearth.
“I wish he were Mr. Gage!” said my aunt, contemplating the fragments.
“I dare say he was a Tory,” says Darthea, who feared no one. “And I am a Tory too, Miss Wynne, I would have you to know.”
“I dare say,” said my aunt; “it doesn’t matter much, what you think, or what you are. You had some words with that stupid man, sir; I saw you. He looked as if he did not like it. Oh, I heard you, too.”
I vainly shook my head at her.
“Are you two going to fight? I am not sorry! I wish I could have that cat Ferguson out.”
“I hope—-oh—-I am sure, Mr. Wynne, it cannot be. How dreadful!” said Darthea.
“Nonsense!” cried my aunt. “A man cannot stand everything like a woman.”
I said plainly, seeing how vain my aunt had made concealment, that there had been some words, but that I trusted no harm would come of it.
“But there will! there will!” said Miss Peniston.
“Mercy upon us!” cried my aunt; for here was Darthea on the floor, and burnt feathers and vinegar at hand, servants running about, my aunt ordering “Cut her stay-strings!” as I was turned out, hearing my aunt declare, “I do believe she is in love with all the men. Is it you or the captain? What a shameless monkey to tumble all of a heap that way! It is hardly decent. Do go away, you goose! ‘Tis a way she has. Did never you see a woman faint?”
I never did, and I was scared faint myself. What between Darthea’s fainting spell, and this quarrel not of my seeking, I was uncomfortable enough. I had no one but Jack to appeal to; and here was a pair of Quaker lads, just over twenty-two, in a proper scrape. I had not the least intention of getting out of it, save in one way. The sneer at my aunt was more than I could endure. What my father would think was another matter.
Mr. Wilson used to say: “When you are in difficulties dispose of the worst first;” and so I resolved, as I must fight the man, and that was the imminent matter, to set aside all thought of my parent, until I was done with Mr. Woodville. Jack I took for granted, and so left a note with the servant asking my opponent’s friend to call on Jack at an hour when he was like to be alone. Before I could leave to warn him of what was on hand my aunt came to me.
“I sent that girl home in the chaise. It was her fear lest some one may be hurt, but she really has no excuse. She talked quite wild as she came to—I mean of you and Arthur Wynne—just mere babble. And, O Hugh! I am a drivelling old maid, and have taught you all manner of nonsense, and now I have got you into trouble. Don’t let him kill you, Hugh. Cannot it be stopped? I told Darthea to hold her tongue, and I am so miserable, Hugh; and when I think of your dead mother, and all I promised, what shall I do?” And the kind old lady penitently wept over me, as if I were run through already.
I felt, as you may imagine, the embarrassment and doubt a young man feels when about to protest by a single act against the creed of conduct which he has been taught to follow since he could remember. I smiled, too, as I recalled our first school duel, and how Jack and I ran away.
My aunt, seeing there was nothing more to be done, and having said quite enough, retired, I am sure to pray for me, and for herself as the main cause of my coming risk. She would have liked to see me well out of the affair, but I do believe would not have had me excuse myself to my lieutenant, let what might occur. Indeed, she did her best to keep Miss Darthea from betraying what, but for my aunt’s rash outburst, would not have gone beyond those immediately concerned.
It was late in the afternoon, when I found Jack writing in his father’s house. I must have looked grave, for he rose quickly and, coming to meet me, set a hand on each of my shoulders—a way he had, but only with me.
“What is it?” he said; “not the news?”
“No.” In fact, it had clean gone out of my mind.
“I have had trouble with Mr. Woodville, and now I must fight him.” And on this I related the whole adventure, Jack listening intently.
“Thou shouldst have an older man than I, Hugh. These affairs may often be mended, I learn, without coming to violence.” He seemed a little embarrassed, and reddened, hesitating as he spoke, so that, stupidly not comprehending him as I should have done, I said hastily that the man had insulted my aunt, and that there was but one way out of it, but that I could try to get some one else, if to act as my friend was not to his taste.
“At this time,” he writes, “when Hugh came so near to hurting me, I was really going through in my mind what he had already disposed of in his. At Pike’s we heard of nothing but duels. I had long been Pike’s pupil. The duel had come to seem to us, I fear, the natural and inevitable ending of a quarrel. Such was the belief of my good friend Mistress Wynne’s set, and of the officers whose opinions as to social matters we had learned to regard as final.
“And yet the absurdity of two Quaker lads so trapped struck me as it did not Hugh. The man must surely have thought him older than he was, but so did most. I feared that I should not do my friend justice; and then I thought of dear Mistress Gainor, whom I now loved, and for whom to lose Hugh would be as death in life; and so, quickly turning it over for one mad moment, I wondered if I could not someway get this quarrel on to my own shoulders. When I answered Hugh I must have made him misunderstand me, or so I think from what he said. When he exclaimed he could get some one else, I made haste to put myself right. We had little time, however, to discuss the matter, for at this moment came a Captain Le Clere with Hugh’s note.
“Hugh was now in one of his quiet, smiling moods, when from his face you would have said there was some jest or wager in question, and from his talk, which had a kind of intensity of distinct articulation, that it was, as I thought it, most serious. He was coldly civil to Mr. Le Clere, and to me apart said, ‘Small swords, and the governor’s woods by the spring’ as if he were arranging a quite familiar and every-day affair.
“I frankly declared that I was new to an office of this kind, and must trust to Mr. Le Clere’s honour and courtesy. He seemed pleased at this, and thought a pity of so young a man to have such a difficulty, expressing his hopes of accommodation, which I knew Hugh too well to think possible.
“As soon as we had arranged the needed preliminaries, and Mr. Le Clere had gone, I went to borrow small swords of Pike, arranging to come for them after dark. Duels were common enough even in our Quaker town, especially among gentlemen of his Majesty’s service. Although illegal, so strongly was it felt that for certain offences there was no other remedy possible, that it was difficult to escape the resort to weapons if those involved were of what we who are of it like to call the better class.
“At daybreak Hugh and I were waiting in the woods where—near to what Mr. Penn meant as a public square, a little east of Schuylkill-Eighth street—was an open space, once a clearing, but now disused, and much overgrown. We were first on the ground, and I took occasion to tell Hugh of Pike’s counsels—for he had at once guessed what we were about—to watch his opponent’s eyes, and the like. Hugh, who was merry, and had put aside such thoughts of the future as were troubling me, declared that it was the mouth a man should watch, which I think is the better opinion. I said, of course, nothing of what Pike told me as to Mr. Woodville being a first-rate player, and only advised my friend to be cautious.
“Mr. Woodville, who came with Le Clere and a surgeon, was a short lump of a man, and an odd contrast to his friend, who was long and lank. The pair of them looked like Don Quixote and his squire. The short man I felt quite confident Hugh could handle, and was surprised, seeing his build, that Pike should have declared him a good blade. Mr. Le Clere was very civil, and I followed his directions, knowing, as I have said, but little of such affairs.
“Our men being stripped to the shirt, and ready, Mr. Le Clere and I drew away some twenty feet. Then, to my surprise, the lean officer said to me, ‘Mr. Warder, shall I have the honour to amuse you with a turn? Here are our own swords of a length, as you see.’
“I was anything rather than amused. I had heard of this foolish English custom of the friends also engaging. I knew that it was usual to make the offer, and that it was not needful to accept; but now, as I saw my Hugh standing ready with his sword upon the ground, I began to shake all over, and to colour. Such hath always been my habit when in danger, even from my boyhood. It is not because I am afraid. Yet, as it seems to another like fear, to feel it sets me in a cold rage, and has many times, as on this occasion, led me into extremes of rashness.
“I suppose Mr. Le Clere saw my condition, and unhappily let loose on his face a faint smile. ‘At your service,’ I said, and cast off my coat.
“‘It is not necessary, sir,’ he replied, a bit ashamed to engage a fellow like me, who shook and blushed, and looked to be about seventeen.
“‘We are losing time,’ said I, in a fury, not over-sorry to be thus or in any way distracted from Hugh’s peril. In truth, I need have had small fear for him. For two years Hugh and I had fenced almost daily, and what with Pike and Arthur Wynne, knew most of the tricks of the small sword.
“The next moment Le Clere cried, ‘On guard, gentlemen!’ and I heard the click of the blades as they met. I had my hands full, and was soon aware of Le Clere’s skill. I was, however, as agile as a cat, and he less clever with his legs than his arm. Nor do I think he desired to make the affair serious. In a few minutes—it seemed longer—I heard an oath, and, alarmed for Hugh, cast a glance in his direction. I saw his foe fall back, his sword flying some feet away. My indiscretion gave my man his chance. His blade caught in my rolled-up sleeve, bent, and, as I drove my own through his shoulder, passed clean through the left side of my neck. With a great jet of blood, I fell, and for a little knew no more.”
This account from Jack’s journal is a better statement of this sad business than I could have set down. I saw with horror Jack and Le Clere salute, and then was too full of business to see more, until I had disarmed Mr. Woodville, badly wounding his sword-hand, a rare accident. And here was my Jack dead, as I thought. I think I can never forget that scene; Mr. Le Clere, gaunt and thin, lifting his late foe, the surgeon kneeling and busy, my own man hot and wrathful, cursing like mad, and wrapping his hand about with a handkerchief, clearly in pain, and I waiting for the word of death or life.
At last the doctor said, “It is bad—bad, but not fatal. How came it, Le Clere? You told me that neither you nor Mr. Woodville meant anything serious.”
I was kneeling by Jack, and was not intended to hear what all were too hot and excited to guard by bated breath.
“Damn it, doctor!” returned Le Clere. “It is no use to talk. I never imagined that youngster would take me at my word.”
“You will be in hot water here,” said the doctor. “I would advise you to get away, and soon.”
“And we shall supply amusement to every mess in the army,” said Woodville, with an abundance of bad language. “Quakers indeed!”
Jack’s eyes opened, and he said, “Thou art not hurt, Hugh?”
“No, no!” I answered, and, relieved a little, turned to Mr. Le Clere: “We shall, I fear, have to ask thy chaise of thee. We came afoot. I will send it back at once.”
Le Clere said, “Of course; with all my heart.”
“Thou wilt pardon me,” said I, “if I advise thee to accept the doctor’s advice, and get away with all speed. I should be sorry if thou wert arrested. The feeling against gentlemen of thy profession is unhappily strong just now.”
Le Clere looked me over with a quick glance of something like curiosity, and said, as he gave his hand, “You are a gallant gentleman, Mr. Wynne. You will permit an older man to say so. I trust we may meet again. Are all Quakers as clever at swordplay?”
I said a civil word, seeing Jack smile as he lay with my bloody coat under his head. Then, as I remembered that perhaps Mr. Woodville might not be satisfied, I went up to him and said, “I am at thy service, sir, if thou art not contented to let us be quit of this matter.”
“It must needs rest now,” he replied. “Damn your tricks!”
“Sir!” said I.
“Holloa!” says Le Clere; “this won’t do. Keep your temper. This way, Mr. Wynne.” And he drew me aside.
It was full time; I was beginning to get my blood up, and was in a rage.
“This comes,” he said, “of going out with a fellow that has risen from the ranks. Why do your ladies receive every one who wears a red coat? Let me help you with your friend. I am most sorry. For my share, I have a neat reminder in the shoulder. Mr. Warder has the wrist of a blacksmith”—which was true, and for good reason.
There is no need to tell of the wrath and incapacity of poor Jack’s father, I got away as soon as Dr. Rush arrived, and, promising to return in an hour, went off with a smile from my Jack, and a “Thank God! Hugh, that it was not thou who had the worst of it.”
It was about seven as I knocked at my aunt’s door, and, passing the black page, ran upstairs. My aunt was in the breakfast-room; she came to meet me in a morning gown, and to my astonishment was very tranquil, but with eyes that looked anxious, and far more red than common.
“Sit down, sir. I want to hear about this ridiculous business.”
“It may seem so to thee,” said I; “I am glad if it amuses thee.”
“Stuff! Talk decent English, man. That was like your father. Is—are you—is any one hurt?”
I said that was what we went for, and so told her the whole sorry business.
“And it was for me, sir!” she cried; “for me! And my dear brave girl-boy! Is it dangerous?”
I hoped not. We had both left our marks on the English officers. That she liked. Then she was silent awhile.
“Here is come a note from the kitten. Will you have it? It may be all you will ever get of her. She says she has held her tongue; I can’t—I don’t believe her—and asks me to let her know if any are hurt. I will. Does she suppose gentlemen go out just to look at one another? Ridiculous!”
I spoke at last of my father; of how he would take this matter, of his increasing acerbity, and of my own unhappy life, where I found nothing to replace my mother’s love. My last disaster and poor Jack’s wound seemed like enough to widen the gap between me and my parent, and my Aunt Gainor was troubled.
“You must be first to tell him,” said my aunt. “I think he will say but little. He has given you up as a sheep lost in the darkness of iniquity, and too black to be found easily.”
I begged her not to jest. I was sore and sick at heart.
“Eat your breakfast,” she said, “and get it over with your father.”
I hurried through the meal, and went upstairs, to find my sleeve full of blood, although no harm had been done but what was easily set right by what Dr. Rush called a bit of diachylon plaster. (I think I spell it correctly.)
As I went by Darthea’s home I cast a glance up at the open window, and saw my lady looking out. She was pale, and as she called to me I could not but go in, for, indeed, she ran herself to open the door.
“Come in! Oh, just a moment!” she cried. “Your aunt has written me a note, and it tells me almost nothing—nothing.”
I was in no very kindly humour with Miss Darthea. Since our talk about my cousin she had been very high and mighty, and would have little to say to me except unpleasant things about the angry politics of the day. I said I was glad to have heard she had told no one of what my aunt’s rash speech had let slip. I had better have held my own tongue. Darthea was in another mood to-day, and all at once became quiet and dignified.
“I gave my word, Mr. Wynne. When you know me better you will learn that I can keep it. Is—is Mr. Warder much hurt?”
“Yes,” I said; “he is in great peril.” I saw how anxious she was, and was vexed enough to want to hurt her.
“Oh, you men! you men!” she cried. “Will he die, do you think? Poor boy!” She sat down and began to cry. “He must not die; why did you lead him into such wicked trouble?”
It was vain to explain how little I had to do with the matter. Did she love Jack? I little knew in those days how tender was this gentle heart, how it went out, tendril-like, seeking it knew not what, and was for this reason ever liable to say too much, and to give rise to misapprehension.
“O Darthea!” I cried. “Dost thou love my Jack? I shall be the last to come in his way. I have said I love thee myself, and I can never change. But how can it be? how can it be? And my cousin? O Darthea!”
“I love no one, sir. I love everybody. I—I think you are impertinent, Mr. Wynne. Is it your business whom I love? My God! there is blood on your hand! Are you hurt?”
It was true; a little blood was trickling down my wrist. She was all tenderness again. I must not go; here was her handkerchief; and so on—till I longed to take her in my arms, she made me so sorry for her I said it was of no moment, and I must go.
“You will come soon again, and tell me about Jack.”
I went away, not wondering that all the world should love her.
I hastened to Jack’s home, and there found Dr. Rush and Dr. Glentworth, who was later to be the physician of Mr. Washington. My aunt, preceding me, had taken possession. Mr. Warder was reduced to a condition of abject obedience, and for a month and more my aunt hardly left her girl-boy’s pillow. Indeed, it was long before I was let to see him, and then he was but a spectre of himself, with not enough blood to blush with. Our officers very promptly left for New York the day after our fight, and we heard no more of them.
It would have been of little use to tell this long story but for the consequences to me and to others. I should have done well to see my father at once; but I could not get away, and sat till noon, asking every now and then what I could do, and if Jack were better, despite the fact that I was told he was doing well.
Mr. Warder was one of those people who, once a crisis seems over, must still be doing something, and to be rid of him he was sent by my aunt to get certain articles the doctors did or did not need. It seemed wise to this gentleman, having completed his errands, to pay a visit of condolence to my father, and thus it was that greater mischief was made.
About two I got away, and set forth to see my parent. Already the news was out, and I was stopped over and over to explain what had happened. It was the hour of dinner; for Friends dined at two, but my aunt and the gayer set at four.
My father turned from his meal, and coldly looked me all over,—my arm was in a sling, on which Dr. Rush had insisted,—and last into my eyes. “Well,” he said, “thou art come at last. Fortunately, Friend Warder has been here, and I know thy story and the mischief into which thou hast led his poor lad. It is time we had a settlement, thou and I. Hast thou fear neither of God nor of man? A rebellious son, and a defier of authority! It is well thy mother is dead before she saw thee come to this ruin of soul and body.”
“My God! father,” I cried; “how canst thou hurt me thus! I am in sorrow for Jack, and want help. To whom should I go but to thee? O mother, mother!” I looked around at the bare walls, and down at the sanded floor, and could only bury my face in my hands and weep like a baby. What with all the day had brought, and Darthea and Jack, and now this stern old man silent, impassive, unmoved by what was shaking me like a storm,—although I loved him still for all his hardness,—I had no refuge but in tears.
He rose, and I sat still, thinking what I should say. “When thou art ready to turn from thy sin and ask pardon of God and of me, who am brought to shame on thy account, I will talk with thee.”
Upon this I set myself between him and the door. “We cannot part this way. It is too terrible.”
“That was a matter thou hadst been wise to consider long ago, Hugh.”
“No!” I cried. I was as resolved as he. “I must be heard. How have I offended? Have I neglected thy business? who can say so? I was insulted in Meeting, and I went where men do not trample on a penitent boy, and if I have gone the way of my aunt’s world, is it my fault or thine? I have gone away from what, in thy opinion, is right as regards questions in which the best and purest side with me. Am I a child, that I may not use my own judgment?” It was the first time in my life that I had plainly asserted my freedom to think and to act.
To my surprise, he stood a moment in silence, looking down, I as quiet, regarding him with eager and attentive eyes. Then he said, seeking my gaze, “I am to blame; I have too much considered thy chances of worldly gain. I know not whence thou hast thy wilfulness.” As I looked in the face of this strong, rock-like man, I wondered; for he went on, “Not from me, Hugh, not from me—”
“Stop!” I said. “Thou hast said enough.” I feared lest again he should reproach her of whose sweetness I had naught but a gift of the blue eyes that must have met his with menace. I saw, as his hands shook, tapping the floor with his cane, how great were both his anger and his self-control.
“It were well, my son, that this ended. I hope thou wilt see thy way to better courses. Thy cousin was right. He, too, is a man not of my world, but he saw more clearly than I where thou wert going.”
“What!” I cried, “and thou canst think this? Thou hast believed and trusted Arthur Wynne! What did he say of me?”
“I will not be questioned.”
“The man lied to thee,” I cried,—“why, I do not know,—and to others also. Why did he deceive us as to Wyncote? What reason had he? As he lied about that, so does he seem to have lied about me. By heaven! he shall answer me some day.”
“I will hear no profanity in my house. Stand aside! Dost thou not hear me? Am I to be disobeyed in my own house?”
I but half took in his meaning, and stood still. The next moment he seized me by the lapels of my coat, and, spinning me round like a child, pushed me from him. I fell into the great Penn chair he had turned from the table when he rose. He threw open the door, and I saw him walk quickly down the hall and out into the orchard garden.
For a week he did no more than speak to me a word when business made it needful, and then the monotonous days went on as before in the gray, dear mother-eyes were closed in death.
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