My father was out when, the next day at noon, I found in the counting-house our old clerk, Thomas Mason. He, like myself, had seen with distress my father’s condition; but he told me, to my surprise, that he was still acute and competent in most matters of business.
“Look at this, Mr. Hugh,” he said, showing me careful entries in the day-book, in my father’s hand, of nearly one thousand pounds lent to my Cousin Arthur. My father had spoken to Mason of an intention to alter his will. He never did alter it, but, believing me dead, tore it up and made no new one. None of our ships were at sea. Most of them had been sold as transports to the British quartermaster. My sole comfort at home was in the absence of Arthur Wynne, and in the fact that Darthea was in the city, as I learned from Mason.
After this I went at once to see my aunt, but could give her only a few minutes, as I knew McLane would need my knowledge of the neighbourhood. In fact, I was busy for two days looking after the Tory bands who were plundering farms to west of the city.
As soon as possible I went again to see my Aunt Gainor. The good old lady was lamenting her scanty toilet, and the dirt in which the Hessians had left her house. “I have drunk no tea since Lexington,” she said, “and I have bought no gowns. My gowns, sir, are on the backs of our poor soldiers. I am not fit to be seen beside that minx Darthea. And how is Jack? The Ferguson woman has been here. I hate her, but she has all the news. If one has no gowns, it is at least a comfort to hear gossip. I told her so, but Lord! the woman does not care a rap if you do but let her talk. She says Joseph Warder is smit with Darthea’s aunt, and what a fine courtship that will be! Old Duche, our preacher, is gone away with Sir William; and now we have my beautiful young man, Mr. White, at Christ Church.”
So the dear lady rattled on, her great form moving among her battered furniture, and her clear voice, not without fine tones, rising and falling, until at last she dropped into a chair, and would hear all my adventures. It was dangerous to wait long when my aunt invited replies, and before I had time to think she began anew to tell me that Darthea had come at once to see her, and of how respectful she was. At this I encouraged my aunt, which was rarely needed, and then heard further that Mrs. Peniston would remain in town, perhaps because of Friend Joseph Warder.
Darthea had also spoken eagerly of Arthur. His people in Wales had written to her: Arthur’s father and his brother, who was so ill. “I could not but thank her,” said my aunt, “for that brave visit to the jail, as to which she might have written to me. I told her as much, but she said I was a Whig, and outside the lines, and she did not wish to get her aunt into trouble. ‘Stuff!’ said I; ‘how came it Mr. Arthur never knew Hugh?’ ‘How could he? You should have seen him,’ says my little lady, ‘and even after he was well. I did not know him, and how should Mr. Wynne?’
“But,” said my aunt, “I made such little additions to his tale as I dared, but not all I wanted to. I promise you they set my miss to thinking, for she got very red and said it was sheer nonsense. She would ask you herself. She had a pretty picture to show me of Wyncote, and the present man was to be made a baronet. Can a good girl be captured by such things? But the man has some charm, Hugh. These black men”—so we called those of dark complexion—“are always dangerous, and this special devil has a tongue, and can use it well.”
I listened to my aunt, but said little. What chance had I to make Darthea credit me? She had a girl’s desire for the court and kings’ houses and rank; or was this only one Darthea? Could that other be made to listen to a plain lieutenant in a rebel army? Perhaps I had better go back and get knocked on the head. Would she love me the better for proving Arthur a rascal?
I said as much to Aunt Gainer. At this she got up, crying, “Good heavens! there is a Hessian cock-roach! They are twice as big as they were. What a fool you are! The girl is beginning to be in doubt. I am sorry you have driven the man away. A pretty tale your mother had in French of her dear Midi, of the man who would have Love see, and pulled the kerchief off his eyes, whereon the boy’s wings tumbled off, and he sat down and cried because he could no longer fly. When a scamp loves a good girl, let him thank the devil that love is blind.”
Here was Aunt Gainor sentimental, and clever too. I shook my head sadly, being, as a man should be, humble-minded as to women. She said next she would see my father at once, and I must come at eight and bring Mr. McLane. Darthea would be with her, and a friend or two.
I went, but this time I did not bring my commanding officer. Miss Peniston was late. In all her life she was never punctual, nor could she be. While we waited my aunt went on to tell me that Darthea wished me to know how glad Mr. Wynne was I had escaped at the Mischianza. An impulse of a soldier’s duty had made him seize upon me, and he had been happy in the accident which aided my escape. I had done a brave thing to venture into the city, and she and Mr. Wynne felt strongly what a calamity my capture would have been. Darthea’s friends were his friends. “And he is jealous too,” says my lady, “of De Lancey, and Montresor—and—of Mr. Hugh Wynne.”
You must have known Mistress Wynne to comprehend what scorn she put into poor Darthea’s sad excuses, and her explanations of what could not be explained. I felt sorry for the little lady who was absent and was getting such small mercy. It was vain to try to stop my aunt. That no man and few women could do. I did at last contrive to learn that she had said no more of the visit of Arthur to the jail than that I did not seem satisfied.
I had rather my aunt should have let my luckless love-affair alone. I had been in a way to tell her of it, but now I wanted no interference. I feared to talk even to Jack Warder of my dear Darthea. That he saw through me and her I have, after many years, come to know, as these pages must have shown. If to speak of her to this delicate-minded friend was not at this time to my taste, you may rest assured I liked not my aunt’s queer way of treating the matter as she would have done a hand at piquet. She ended this wandering talk with her usual shrewd bits of advice, asking me, as she stopped short in her walk, “Have you a little sense left?”
“I hope so.”
“Then get your head to help that idiot your heart. Leave Darthea to herself. Bide with Miss Chew or Miss Bedman. Women are like children. Let them alone, and by and by they will sidle up to you for notice.”
When the town was in Sir William Howe’s hands, my aunt had rejected all her Tory, and even her neutral, friends. But now that Sir Henry Clinton was flying across the Jerseys, harassed by militia, and our general was on the way to cross the Delaware after them, things were different. Her Tory friends might come to see her if they pleased. Most of these dames came gladly, liking my aunt, and having always had of her much generous kindness. Bessy Ferguson was cross, and Mistress Wynne had been forced to visit her first. What manner of peace was made I did not hear; but no one else was a match at piquet for my Aunt Gainor, and doubtless this helped to reconcile the lady. I grieve that no historian has recorded their interview.
When I wrote of it to Jack, he was much delighted, and just before the fight at Monmouth wrote me a laughing letter, all about what my aunt and Mrs. Ferguson must have said on this occasion. As he knew no word of it, I could never see how he was able to imagine it. Once, later, when their war broke out anew, my aunt told me all about her former encounter; and so much like was it to what Jack had writ that I laughed outright. My aunt said there was nothing to grin at. But a one-sided laugh is ever the merrier. I could not always tell what Mistress Wynne would do, and never what she would say; but Jack could. He should have writ books, but he never did.
I had heard my aunt’s wail over her wardrobe, and was struck dumb at her appearance when, in the evening, I returned as she desired. The gods and the china dragons were out, and, the Hessian devils having been driven forth, the mansion had been swept and garnished, the rugs were down, and the floor was dangerously polished.
My Aunt Gainor was in a brocade which she told me was flowered beautiful with colours very lively. I thought they were. As to the rest of her toilet, I am at a loss for words. The overskirt was lute-string silk, I was told. The hoops were vast; the dress cut square, with a “modesty-fence” of stiff lace. A huge high cap “with wings is the last thing,” cried the lady, turning round to be seen, and well pleased at my admiration. She was an immense and an amazing figure. I did wonder, so big she was, where she meant to put the other women—and I said as much.
“Here is one,” she whispered, “who will like your uniform more than will the rest. Mr. Wynne of the army, my nephew, Miss Morris. And how is Mr. Gouverneur Morris?”
We fell to talking, but when others came and were presented or named by me to the Whig lady, my young woman said, “Are there none but Tories?” And she was short, I thought, with Mrs. Ferguson, who came in high good humour and a gown of Venice silk. I saw Aunt Gainor glance at her gold-laced handkerchief.
I was glad to see them all. Very soon the rooms were well filled, and here were Dr. Rush and Charles Thomson, the secretary of Congress, who stayed but a little while, leaving the great doctor to growl over the war with Miss Morris, and to tell her how ill read was our great chief, and how he could not spell, and had to have his letters writ for him to copy like a boy. Mr. Adams had said as much. I ventured to remark, having by this time come to understand our doctor, that we knew better in camp, and that at least our chief understood the art of war. The doctor was not of this opinion, and considered General Gates the greater man.
Then I left them to welcome Mrs. Chew and the lovely Margaret, and Miss Shippen, and last my Darthea with her aunt, who was as thin as a book-marker.
“Aunt,” I said slyly, “what is this? Tories again?”
“Be quiet, child! You have pulled their teeth. You will see they are meek enough. The dog on top can always forgive, and I must have my cards. Behave yourself! How handsome you are! Here they come.” And now there was a cross-fire of welcomes and “We have missed you so much,” and “How well you look!” and fine sweep of curtseys, very pretty and refreshing to a war-worn veteran.
I bent to kiss Mrs. Shippen’s hand. Mrs. Ferguson tapped me on the arm with her fan, whispering I was grown past the kissing-age, at which I cried that would never be. I took Darthea’s little hand with a formal word or two, and, biding my time, sat down to talk with the two Margarets, whom folks called Peggy, although both were like stately lilies, and the pet name had no kind of fitness.
The ombre-tables were set out and ready, and it was all gay and merry, and as if there might never have been war, either civil or social. “It is all as meek as doves’ milk,” whispered Mistress Wynne over my shoulder. “Gossip and cards against the world for peacemakers, eh, Hugh?” Assuredly here was a beautiful truce, and all the world amiable.
The powdered heads wagged; brocade and silk rustled; the counters rattled. Fans huge as sails set little breezes going; there was wise neutrality of speech, King Ombre being on the throne and everybody happy.
Meanwhile I set my young women laughing with an account of how a Quaker looked in on them through the window at the redcoat ball, but of the incident in the garden I said nothing, nor was it known beyond those immediately concerned. The two Margarets were curious to hear what Mr. Washington looked like, and one miss would know if Mr. Arnold was a dark man, hearing with the delight of girls how his Excellency gave dinners in camp and sat on one side, with Mr. Hamilton or Mr. Tilghman, at the top, and for diet potatoes and salt herring, with beef when it was to be had, and neither plates nor spoons nor knives and forks for all, so that we had to borrow, and eat by turns.
Miss Morris, just come to town with good Whig opinions, was uneasy in this society, and said, “We shall have enough of everything when we catch Sir Henry Clinton.” In a minute there would have been more war had not my aunt risen, and the party turned to drink chocolate and eat cakes.
After a world of little gossip they settled their debts and went away, all but Mrs. Peniston and her niece, my aunt declaring that she wanted the elder lady’s advice about the proper mode to cool blackberry jam. For this sage purpose the shadow-like form of Darthea’s aunt in gray silk went out under cover of my aunt’s large figure, and Darthea and I were left alone.
How pretty she was in fair white muslin with long gloves, a red rosebud in each sleeve, and only a trace of powder on her hair, smiling, and above all women graceful! She had seemed older when we met in the Provostry, and now to-day was slim and girl-like. I do not know where she got that trick of change, for in after-days, when in the fuller bloom of middle age, she still had a way of looking at times a gay and heedless young woman. She had now so innocent an air of being merely a sweet child that a kind of wonder possessed me, and I could not but look at her with a gaze perhaps too fixed to be mannerly.
“Darthea,” I said, as we sat down, “I owe my life to you twice—twice.”
“No, no!” she cried. “What could I do but go to the jail? Miss Wynne was away.”
“You might have told my father,” I said. Why had she not?
“Mr. Wynne is grown older, and—I—There was no time to be lost, and Arthur was gone on duty for I know not what.” She was seeing and answering what further might have seemed strange to me. “Aunt Peniston was in a rage, I assure you. My aunt in a rage, Mr. Wynne, is a tempest in a thimble. All in a minute it boils over and puts out the little fire, and there is an end of it, and she asks what ought to be done. But now I am penitent, and have been scolded by Arthur. I will never, never do it any more. My aunt was right, sir.”
“I think you gave me more than life, Darthea, that day. And did you think I would take the parole?”
“Never for a moment!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “I would have taken it, but I want my friends to be wiser and stronger than I. I—I was proud of you in your misery and ragged blanket.” And with this the wonderful face went tender in a moment, and for my part I could only say, “Darthea! Darthea!”
She was quick to see and to fear, and to avoid that which was ever on my lips when with her, and which she seemed to bid to live, and then to fly from as if she had never tempted me.
“Ah, you were a droll figure, and Arthur could not but laugh when I described this hero in a blanket. It was then he told me more fully what before he had wrote, how in the hurry of an inspection he saw many men dying, and one so like you that he asked who it was, and was given another name; but now he thought it must have been you, and that you had perhaps chosen, why he knew not, a name not your own, or you had been misnamed by the turnkey. It was little wonder where men were dying in scores and changed past recognition; it was no wonder, I say, he did not know you, Mr. Wynne. He was so sorry, for he says frankly that just because you and he are not very good friends—and why are you not?—he feels the worse about it. After he had scolded me well, and I made believe to cry, he said it was a noble and brave thing I had done, and he felt he should have been the one to do it had he known in season. He did really mean to get the parole, but then you ran away. And you do see, Mr. Wynne, that it was all a frightful mistake of Arthur’s, and he is—he must be sorry?”
I would then and there have said to her that the man was a liar, and had meanly left me to die; but it was my word against his, and Delaney had long ago gotten out and been exchanged and gone South, whither I knew not. As of course she must trust the man she loved, if I were to say I did not believe him we should quarrel, and I should see her no more.
“My dear lady,” I said, keeping myself well in hand, “the moral is that women should be sent to inspect the hungry, the ragged, the frozen, and the dying.”
I saw she did not relish my answer. Was she herself quite satisfied? Did she want to be fortified in her love and trust by me, who had suffered? A shadow of a frown was on her brow for a moment, and then she said, “He will write to you. He promised me he would write to you. And that dear old Sister of Charity!—you must go and thank her at the little convent beside St. Joseph’s, in Willing’s Alley. You upset her as you went out in that rude fashion. Any but a Quaker would have stayed to apologise. Mr. Wynne was pleased I went to the jail with the dear sister. I believe the man really thought I would have gone alone. And I would; I would! When he told me it was clever and modest to get the sweet old papist for company, I swept him a mighty curtsey and thanked him and puzzled him, which is what men are for.”
Sitting in the open bow-window above the garden, my Darthea had most of the talk, while, when I dared no longer stare at her changeful face, I looked past her at the June roses swaying in the open window-space.
“Yes,” I laughed, “that is what men are for; but I have not done with you. I have also to thank you for my escape in the garden—you and Mr. Andre. He has a good memory, I fancy.”
“Oh, the fainting—yes,” said Miss Peniston, lightly. “It was fortunate it came just then. And Mr. Wynne was glad enough of it later. He said it had saved him from the most horrible regret life could bring. If he had but had time to think—or had known—”
“Known what?”
“No matter; I was in time to stop myself from saying a foolish thing. Let me give thanks for my escape. I have a restless tongue, and am apt to say what I do not mean; and I do faint at nothing.”
“It was very opportune, my dear Miss Peniston.”
“La! la! as aunt says, one would think I went faint on purpose, in place of its being the heat, and a providential accident, and very annoying too; not a woman anywhere near me.”
“It saved a worthless life,” I said; “and but for it I should have had short shrift and the gallows on the Common.”
“Hush!” she returned. “That is not pretty talk. Your cousin is unlucky, he says, to have had you fall in his way when it was impossible to escape from arresting you. He told me Mr. Andre assured him he could have done no other thing, and that it was vain to regret what was the inevitable duty of a soldier. I think Arthur was the most pleased of all when you got away. I must say you went very fast for so grave a Quaker.”
“And could you see?” said I, slyly.
“No, of course not. How should I, and I in a dead faint? Mr. Andre told me next day he thought that dreadful rebel, Mr. McLane, saved your life when he was mean enough, just in the middle of that beautiful ball, to set fire to something. At first we took it for the fireworks. But tell me about Miss Gainor’s girl-boy—our own dear Jack.”
“He can still blush to beat Miss Franks, and he still believes me to be a great man, and—but you do not want to hear about battles.”
“Do I not, indeed! I should like to see Mr. Jack in a battle; I cannot imagine him hurting a fly.”
“The last I saw, at Germantown, of Jack, he was raging in a furious mob of redcoats, with no hat, and that sword my aunt presented cutting and parrying. I gave him up for lost, but he never got a scratch. I like him best in camp with starving, half-naked men. I have seen him give his last loaf away. You should hear Mr. Hamilton—that is his Excellency’s aide—talk of Jack; how like a tender woman he was among men who were sick and starving. Hamilton told me how once, when Jack said prayers beside a dying soldier and some fellow laughed,—men get hard in war,—our old Quaker friend Colonel Forest would have had the beast out and shot him, if the fool had not gone to Jack and said he was sorry. Every one loves the man, and no wonder.”
“He is fortunate in his friend, Mr. Wynne. Men do not often talk thus of one another. I have heard him say as much or more of you. Mistress Wynne says it is a love-affair. Are men’s friendships or women’s the best, I wonder?” I said that was a question beyond me, and went on to tell her that I should be in town but a few days, and must join my regiment as soon as General Arnold could do without us, which I believed would be within a week.
She was as serious as need be now, asking intelligent questions as to the movements of the armies and the chances of peace. I had to show her why we lost the fight at Germantown, and then explain that but for the fog we should have won it, which now I doubt.
Mr. Andre had told her that it was because of our long rifles that the enemy lost so many officers, picked off out of range of musket, and did I think this was true? It seemed to her unfair and like murder.
I thought she might be thinking of my cousin’s chances, for here, after a pause, she rose suddenly and said it was late and that the strawberry jam must be cool, or the discussion over it hot, to keep Mrs. Peniston so long. My aunt would have had me stay for further talk, but I said I was tired, and went away home feeling that the day had been full enough for me.
A little later, one afternoon in this June, I found my aunt seated so deep in thought that I asked her the cause.
“Presently,” she said. “I have meant to tell you, but I have delayed; I have delayed. Now you must know.” Here she rose and began to stride restlessly among the furniture, walking to and fro with apparent disregard of the china gods and Delft cows. She reminded me once more of my father in his better days. Her hands were clasped behind her, which is, I think, a rare attitude with women. Her large head, crowned with a great coil of gray hair which seemed to suit its massive build, was bent forward as if in thought.
“What is it, Aunt Gainor?”
She did not pause in her walk or look up, and only motioned me to a seat, saying, “Sit down. I must think; I must think.”
It was unlike her. Generally, no matter how serious the thing on her mind, she was apt to come at it through some trivial chat; but now her long absence of speech troubled me.
I sat at least ten minutes, and then, uneasy, said, “Aunt Gainor, is it Darthea?”
“No, you fool!” And she went on her wandering way among the crackled gods. “Now I will talk, Hugh, and do not interrupt me. You always do;” but, as Jack Warder says, no one ever did successfully interrupt Miss Wynne except Miss Wynne.
She sat down, crossed one leg over the other, as men do when alone with men, and went on, as I recall it, to this effect, and quite in her ordinary manner: “When the British were still here, late in May I had a note through the lines from Mr. Warder as to the confusion in my house, and some other matters. He got for me a pass to come in and attend to these things. I stayed three days with Mrs. Peniston and Darthea. While here the second day I was bid to sup at Parson Duche’s, and though I hated the lot of them, I had had no news nor so much as a game of cards for an age, and so I went. Now don’t grin at me.
“When I was to leave no coach came, as I had ordered, and no chair, either. There was Mrs. Ferguson had set up a chaise. She must offer me to be set down at home. I said my two legs were as good as her horses’, and one of them—I mean of hers—has a fine spavin; as to Mrs. Mischief’s own legs, they are so thin her garters will not stay above her ankles.
“I walked from Third street over Society Hill, thinking to see your father, and to find a big stick for company across the bridges.”
She was given to going at night where she had need to go, with a great stick for privateersmen, the vagabond, drunken Hessians, and other street pirates. I can see her now, shod with goloe-shoes against mud or snow, with her manlike walk and independent air, quite too formidable to suggest attack.
“I went in at the back way,” she continued; “not a servant about but Tom, sound asleep at the kitchen fire. I went by him, and from the hall saw your father, also in deep slumber in his arm-chair. I got me a candle and went upstairs to look how things were. The house was in vile disorder, and dirty past belief. As to your own chamber, where that scamp Arthur slept, it was—well, no matter.
“As I went downstairs and into the back dining-room I heard the latch of the hall door rattle. ‘Is it Arthur?’ thought I; and of no mind to see him, I sat down and put out my candle, meaning to wait till he was come in, and then to slip out the back way. The next moment I heard Arthur’s voice and your father’s. Both doors into the front room were wide open, and down I sat quietly, with a good mind to hear. It is well I did. I suppose you would have marched in and said, ‘Take care how you talk; I am listening.’ Very fine, sir. But this was an enemy. You lie, cheat, spy, steal, and murder in war. How was I worse than you?”
“But, dear Aunt Gainor—”
“Don’t interrupt me, sir. I sat still as a mouse.” My aunt as a mouse tickled my fancy. There may be such in my friend Mr. Swift’s Brobdingnag.
“I listened. Master Wynne is pleasant, and has had a trifle too much of Mr. Somebody’s Madeira. He is affectionate, and your father sits up, and, as Dr. Rush tells me, is clear of head after his sleep, or at least for a time.
“My gentleman says, ‘I may have to leave you soon, my dear cousin. I want to talk to you a little. Is there any one in the back room?’ As there is no one, he goes on, and asks his cousin to tell him about the title to Wyncote as he had promised. His brother was ill and uneasy, and it was all they had, and it was a poor thing after all. Your father roused up, and seemed to me to fully understand all that followed. He said how fond he was of Arthur, and how much he wished it was he who was to have the old place. Arthur replied that it was only in his father’s interest he spoke.
“Then they talked on, and the amount of it was pretty much this. How many lies Arthur got into the talk the Lord—or the devil—knows! This was what I gathered: Your grandfather Hugh, under stress of circumstances, as you know, was let out of Shrewsbury jail with some understanding that he was to sell his estate to his brother, who had no scruples as to tithes, and to go away to Pennsylvania. This I knew, but it seems that this brother William was a Wynne of the best, and, as is supposed, sold back the estate privately to Hugh for a trifle, so that at any time the elder brother could reclaim his home. What became of the second deed thus made was what Arthur wanted to know.
“Your father must have it somewhere, Hugh. Now says Arthur, ‘We are poor, cousin; the place is heavily encumbered; some coal has been found. It is desirable to sell parts of the estate; how honestly can my father make a title?’ Your great-uncle William died, as we know, Hugh, and the next brother’s son, who was Owen and is Arthur’s father, had a long minority. When he got the place, being come of age, some memoranda of the transaction turned up. It was not a rare one in older Roundhead days. Nothing was done, and time ran on. Now the occupant is getting on in years, and as his second son Arthur is ordered hither on service, it was thought as well that he should make inquiry. The older squires had some vague tradition about it. It was become worth while, as I inferred, to clear the business, or at need to effect a compromise. Half of this I heard, and the rest I got by thinking it over. Am I plain, Hugh?” She was, as usual. “Your father surprised me. He spoke out in his old deliberate way. He said the deed—some such deed—was among his father’s papers; he had seen it long ago. He did not want the place. He was old and had enough, and it should be settled to Master Arthur’s liking.
“Your cousin then said some few words about you. I did not hear what, but your father at once broke out in a fierce voice, and cried, ‘It is too true!’ Well, Hugh,” she went on, “it is of no use to make things worse between you.”
“No,” I said; “do not tell me. Was that all?”
“Not quite. Master Arthur is to have the deed if ever it be found, and with your father’s and your grandfather’s methodical ways, that is pretty sure to happen.”
“I do not care much, Aunt Gainor, except that—”
“I know,” she cried; “anybody else might have it, but not Arthur.”
“Yes; unless Darthea—”
“I understand, sir; and now I see it all. The elder brother will die. The father is old, the estate valuable, and this lying scamp with his winning ways will be master of Wyncote, and with a clear title if your father is able to bring it about. He can, Hugh, unless—”
“What, aunt?”
“Unless you intervene on account of my brother’s mental state.”
“That I will never do! Never!”
“Then you will lose it.”
“Yes; it must go. I care but little, aunt.”
“But I do, sir. You are Wynne of Wyncote.”
I smiled, and made no reply.
“The man stayed awhile longer, but your father after that soon talked at random, and addressed Arthur as Mr. Montresor. I doubt if he remembered a word of it the day after. When he left and went upstairs your father fell into sleep again. I went away home alone, and the day after to the Hill Farm.”
“It is a strange story,” I said. “And did he get the deed before the army left?”
My aunt thought not. “Mason says all the papers are at the counting-house, and that up to this time your father has made no special search. It was but two weeks or less before they left town.”
It was a simple way to trap an over-cunning man, and it much amused me, who did not take the deed and estate matter to heart as did my aunt. When she said, “We must find it,” I could but say that it was my father’s nothing. Of course I told it all to Jack when next we met.
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