Early in March of 1782 Jack and I concluded that the war was over, or was to be but a waiting game, as indeed it proved. After some thought over the matter we both resigned, and as it was desired to lessen the list of officers, we were promptly released from service.
On March 22 his Excellency rode away from town under escort of Captain Morris’s troop of light horse. I went along as far as Burlington, being honoured when I left by the personal thanks of the general, and the kind wish that I might discover it to be convenient to visit him at Mount Vernon.
April was come, and we gladly turned again to the duties which awaited us both. His Excellency had gone to watch Sir Guy Carleton penned up in New York. Congress wrangled, our gay world ate and danced, and the tardy war fell to such slackness that it was plain to all a peace must soon come, although we were yet to see another winter pass before the obstinate Dutchman on the English throne gave up a lost game.
In July my father died of a sudden afflux of blood to the head; and although he was blooded by Dr. Rush several times, never was so far bettered as to speak to me. Only once, as I am told is not rare, he so revived when in the very article of death as to look about and say, thinking my hand in his was my mother’s, that she must not grieve for him.
Alas! he had been as one dead to me for many a year. I wore no black for him, because I was and am of the opinion of Friends that this custom is a foolish one. My aunt was ill pleased at my decision, and put herself and all her house in mourning. None the less, for my part, did I regret, not so much the natural, easy death, as the sad fact it seemed to fetch back so plainly, that from my youth up here were two people, neither of them unkindly or ill natured, who were all through life as completely apart as if no tie of a common blood had pledged them to affection.
I saw—I can see now—the gray and drab of the great concourse of Friends who stood about that open grave on Arch street. I can see, too, under the shadow of his broad gray beaver, the simple, sincere face of James Pemberton, my father’s lifelong friend. He spoke, as was the custom of Friends, at the grave, there being no other ceremony, an omission of which I confess I do not approve. Much moved, he said:
“Our friend, John Wynne, departed this life on the 23d of July of this year {being 1782}. For many years he hath carried the cross of afflicting sickness, and hath unceasingly borne testimony to the doctrine and conduct upheld of Friends. He was a man of great abilities, and, like our lamented William Penn, of an excellent gravity of disposition, without dissimulation, extensive in charity, having neither malice nor ungratefulness. He was apt without forwardness, yet weighty, and not given to unseemly levity. The wise shall cherish the thought of him, and he shall be remembered with the just.” And this was all. One by one they took my hand, and with my Aunt Gainor I walked away. I closed the old home a day or two later, and went with my aunt to her farm.
I had not seen Darthea for many a day. “Let her alone,” said my aunt. I think Jack was often with her; but he knew to hold his tongue, and I asked no questions. At last, a week after the funeral, I recognised her hand in the address of a note to me. I read it with a throbbing heart.
“Sir: I have heard of your great loss with sorrow, for even though your father has been this long while as one lost to you, I do think that the absence of a face we love is so much taken from the happiness of life. You know that your aunt hurt me as few could, but now I am not sorry for what then befell. The thought of death brings others in its train, and I have reflected much of late. I shall go to see Mistress Wynne to-day, and will you come and see me when it shall appear to you convenient? I am for a little at Stenton, with Madam Logan.”
Would I, indeed? My dear old Lucy, a little stiff in the knees, carried me well, and seemed to share my good humour as I rode down the long road from Chestnut Hill.
The great trees about the home James Logan built were in full leaf, and under their shade a black groom held two horses as I rode up. Darthea came out, and was in the saddle before she saw me.
The rich bloom of health was again on her cheek, and deepened a little as I went toward her.
I said I was glad to see her, and was she going to my Aunt Gainor’s? If so, and if it were agreeable to her, the groom might stay. I would ride back with her. Then Mrs. Logan, at the door, said this would suit very well, as she needed the man to go to town. After this we rode away under the trees and up the Germantown road, Miss Peniston pushing her horse, and we not able on this account to talk. At last, when I declared Lucy too old to keep up the pace, the good beast fell to walking.
Soon we went by the graveyard where the brave Englishman, General Agnew, lay; and here Darthea was of a mind to be told again of that day of glory and defeat. At the market-house, where School-house Lane comes out into the main street of Germantown, she must hear of the wild strife in the fog and smoke, and at last of how I was hurt; and so we rode on. She had gotten again her gay spirits, and was full of mirth, anon serious, or for a moment sad. Opposite Cliveden I had to talk of the fight, and say where were Jack and Sullivan and Wayne, although Jack more concerned her. As we rode up the slope of Mount Airy I broke a long silence.
“Darthea,” said I, “Is it yes, or always no?”
“Will you never be contented?” she returned, “Isn’t it mean to say these things now? I can’t get away. I have half a mind to marry Jack, to be rid of you both.”
“Is it yes or no, Darthea?”
“Yes,” she said, looking me in the face. I am a strong man,—I was so then,—but a great rush of blood seemed to go to my head, and then I went pale, as she told me later, and I clutched at Lucy’s mane. I felt as if I might fall, so much was I moved by this great news of joy.
“Are you ill?” she cried.
“No, no,” I said; “it is love! Thy dear love I cannot bear. Thank God, Darthea!”
“And do you love me so much, Hugh? I—I did not know.” She was like a sweet, timid child.
I could only say, “Yes, yes!”
“Oh, Hugh!” she cried. “How can you forgive me? But I am not like other women. My word—you will know—and then you will forgive me.” Her eyes were full of tears, her face all aglow.
“There is—there never will be anything to forgive.”
“But I was so foolish—and—I was so foolish.”
“Let us forget, Darthea. I have thy love. God knows it is enough.”
“Thank you, Hugh. Don’t speak to me for a little, please.” And under the warm August afternoon sky we rode on at a foot-pace, and said no word more until we came to my aunt’s door. Then Darthea slyly put on her riding-mask, and we went in.
My aunt had her in her great arms in a moment. The mask fell, and then my aunt held her off a little, looked from her to me, and said, “Has he made you cry, sweetheart? He always was a fool. I am very glad. You have made an old woman’s heart sing with joy. It is not your fault. Hugh’s silly face was enough. Lord! girl, how pretty you are! Do you suppose I never was in love? I never was, but I know the signs.” Darthea, released, was pleased enough to be let go up to my aunt’s room. By and by she came down, saucy and smiling, and later came Jack, when my aunt, being too happy to hold her dear old tongue, told him, while poor Darthea looked at him with a tender gravity I did not understand. He went away very soon, saying he had business in town, and this is what he writ that night:
“And so she will have my Hugh, and he the best lady alive. I pray the good God to keep them from all the sorrows of this world. If he love her as I love her, she can ask no greater love; and he will—he cannot help it. Now I will write no more. God bless thee, Darthea!” It was thus a gallant gentleman loved in those stormy days.
And here, with this dear name, his records close, and there is the date of August 1, 1782, and a line drawn underneath.
The new relation soon to be established between us of necessity brought Madam Peniston and my aunt into frequent council. There were matters of dress to be considerately dealt with, and I was told it must be six months before orders could be filled from France, England being just now out of the question. Where the mysteries of women’s garments are concerned a man hath no better resort than to submit humbly, as to a doctor or a lawyer. Here of a certainty knowledge is power, and as to this matter, a man had best learn to conceal amazement under a show of meekness.
When I ventured to remonstrate Darthea looked serious, and would I ever have fallen in love with her unless she had laid snares of gown and ribbon, and how was my love to be kept if for the future there were not provided a pretty variety of such vanities? Even my Aunt Gainor refused to discuss the question. I must wait; and as this was the single occasion known to me when she had declined a hand at the game of talk, I began to perceive that ignorance is weakness, and so at last, calmly confessing defeat, I waited until those consulting chose to advise me, the patient, of their conclusions.
Meanwhile Mrs. Peniston had ceased to grieve over the lost lover and the great estate—it never was really great.
My aunt could not let go of the notion that we must have a fight for Wyncote. This tendency to become possessed by an idea, I came to see later, was a family trait, of value if wisely kept in due place, but capable, also, of giving rise to mischief. My aunt, in some of her talks with Darthea’s relatives heard of that good dame’s past regrets at the loss of a title and estate and a British lover, and of how flattered we ought to be.
I presume poor Madam Peniston was well and sharply answered; but it was not in my Aunt Gainor not to boast a little of how we were the elder branch, and of what might chance in the fairy future. When Mrs. Peniston saw the deed, and was told of the search my aunt was making for letters to support our claims, she was too excited not to let out enough to disturb Darthea, and this although my aunt told Mrs. Peniston of my dislike of the whole matter, and how it was never to be mentioned or known to any until more evidence came to light. Thus cautioned, she was just mysterious enough to excite my quick-witted maid, who was as curious as any of her sex.
When of course she questioned me, and some notion of the mischief on hand came thus to my knowledge, I saw at once how it might annoy Darthea. I said that it merely concerned a question in dispute between Arthur Wynne’s family and my own, and ought not, I thought, to be discussed just now. The mere name of her former lover was enough to silence her, and so I begged her to put it aside. She was willing enough. I had happier things on my own mind, and no present desire to stir in the matter. In fact, I wished most earnestly to keep it awhile from Darthea. How much she knew I could not tell, but I was well aware that she was, above all things, sensitive as to any reference to Arthur Wynne. That she had once loved him with the honest love of a strong nature I knew, and somewhat hated to remember; but this love was dead, and if the sorry ghost of it haunted her at times, I could not wonder. My aunt had once or twice mentioned him casually, and each time Darthea had flushed, and once had asked her never to speak of him again. I meant soon—or more likely later—to discuss the matter quietly with Darthea; for then, as always, I held to the notion that the wife should have her share in every grave decision affecting the honour and interests of her husband.
After this I spoke most anxiously of the matter to my aunt, and entreated her to quiet Madam Peniston, and to let the thing rest in my hands. This she declared most reasonable, but I knew her too well not to feel uneasy, and indeed the result justified my fears.
My aunt, as I have said, had gone wild a bit over that deed, and when Darthea was not with her was continually discussing it, and reading over and over Mr. Wilson’s opinion. I got very tired of it all.
One night, late in October, I rode out from town, and, after a change of dress, went into the front room with the dear thought in my mind of her whom I should see.
A welcome fire of blazing hickory logs alone lighted up the large room, for my aunt liked thus to sit at or after twilight, and as yet no candles had been set out. As I stood at the door, the leaping flames, flaring up, sent flitting athwart the floor queer shadows of tall-backed chairs and spindle-legged tables. The great form of my Aunt Gainor filled the old Penn chair I had brought from home, liking myself to use it. Just now, as usual, she was sitting erect, for never did I or any one else see her use for support the back of a chair. At her feet lay Darthea, with her head in the old lady’s lap—a pretty picture, I thought.
Darthea leaped up to run to me. My aunt said nothing, not so much as “Good-evening,” but went out, and in a minute or two came back, exclaiming, in an excited way, that she had waited all day, and now at last she had great news, and we must hear it.
I was bewildered, until I saw she had in one hand the deed and in the other a bundle of letters. Then I knew what a distressful business was to be faced, and that it was vain to cry “Stop!”
“What is it?” said Darthea.
“It can wait,” said I, “I insist, Aunt Gainor.”
“Nonsense! The girl must know soon or late, and why not now?”
“I must hear, Hugh,” said Darthea.
“Very well,” I returned, as angry with the old lady as ever I had been in all my life.
“It is a thing to settle,” cried Aunt Gainor, in her strong voice. “We must agree—agree on it—all of us.”
“Go on,” said I. And Darthea insisting, I said nothing more, and was only concerned to be done with it once for all.
“The war will soon end,” said my aunt, “and something must be done. These letters I have come upon put a new face on the matter. I have not yet read all of them. But among them are letters to your grandfather of great importance.”
I was vexed as I have rarely been. “I never doubted, Aunt Gainor, that in my grandfather’s life some acknowledgments may have passed; but it is the long lapse of time covered by my father’s life which will fail as to evidence.”
“It shall not!” she cried. “You shall be mistress of Wyncote, Darthea. These letters—”
“I? Wyncote?” said Darthea.
“Let us discuss them alone, aunt,” I urged, hoping to get the matter put aside for a time.
“No; I will wait no longer. I am deeply concerned, and I wish Darthea to hear.”
“Why not refer it to Mr. Wilson? Unless these letters cover far more of a century than seems likely, they cannot alter the case.”
“That is to be determined,” said the old lady. “I shall go to England and settle it there. You shall be Wynne of Wyncote yet, sir.”
“What! what!” cried Darthea. “What does all this mean? Tell me, Hugh. Why is it kept from me?” It was plain that soon or late she must know.
“My aunt thinks Wyncote belongs to us. There is an old deed, and my aunt will have it we must go to law over it. It is a doubtful matter, Darthea—as to the right, I mean. I have no wish to stir it up, nor to leave my own land if we were to win it.”
I saw Darthea flush, and in a moment she was at my aunt’s side.
“Stop!” said I. “Remember, dear, I have not hid it from you. I desired only that some day you and I should consider it alone and tranquilly. But now there is no help for it, and you must hear. The deed—”
“Is this it?” she broke in, taking the yellow parchment off the table where my aunt had laid it.
“Yes, yes,” said my aunt; “and you must bring Hugh to his senses about it, my dear. It is a great estate, and rich, and the old house—we have its picture, Darthea. Madam Wynne of Wyncote, I shall come and visit you.” The old lady was flushed, and foolishly eager over this vain ambition.
Darthea stood in the brilliant firelight, her eyes set on the deed. “I cannot understand it,” she said.
“I will send for candles,” cried Mistress Wynne, “and you shall hear it, and the letters too;” and with this she rang a hand-bell, and bade Caesar fetch lights.
I looked on, distressed and curious.
“And this,” said Darthea, “is the deed, and it may give you, Hugh—give us the lands?”
“But I do not want it,” cried my aunt, greatly excited. “It is to be Hugh’s. Yours, my dear child.”
“If,” said Darthea, speaking slowly, “the elder brother dies, as he surely will before long, it will be—it will be Arthur Wynne who, on his father’s death, will inherit this estate?”
“That is it,” said my aunt. “But he shall never have it. It is ours. It is Hugh’s.”
My dear maid turned to me. “And it would be ours,” said Darthea, “if—”
“Yes,” cried Miss Wynne. “There are no ‘ifs.’”
“Do you want it, Hugh—these Welsh lands?” asked Darthea.
I thought she looked anxiously at the deed in her hand as she stood. “Not I, Darthea, and least of all now. Not I.”
“No,” she went on; “you have taken the man’s love from him—I think he did love me, Hugh, in his way—you could not take his estate; now could you, Hugh?”
“No!” said I; “no!”
“Darthea, are you mad?” said Aunt Wynne.
“I will not have it!” cried Darthea. “I say I will not have it, and it concerns me most, madam.” I had never before seen her angry. “Do you love me, Hugh Wynne?” she cried. “Do you love me, sir?”
“Darthea!”
“Will you always love me?”
“Dear child!” I exclaimed. “What is it?”
“Give me that deed,” said my aunt. “Are you crazy fools, both of you?”
“Fools, Mistress Wynne?” said Darthea, turning from me, the deed still in her hand. “You are cruel and unkind. Could I marry Hugh Wynne if he did this thing? Are there no decencies in life, madam, that are above being sold for money and name? I should never marry him if he did this thing—never; and I mean to marry him, madam.” And with this she unrolled the deed, crumpled it up, and threw it on the red blaze of the fire.
There was a flash of flame and a roar in the chimney. It was gone in a moment, and our Welsh lands were so much smoke and cinders.
My aunt made a wild rush to rescue them, but struck her head against the chimney-shelf, and fell back into a chair, crying, “You idiot! you fool! You shall never marry him!”
I picked up the slim little lady in my arms, and kissed her over and over, whilst, as she struggled away, I whispered:
“Thank God! Dear, brave heart! It was well done, and I thank you.”
My aunt’s rage knew no bounds, and I may not repeat what she said to my Darthea, who stood open-eyed, defiant, and flushed.
I begged the furious old lady to stop. A whirlwind were as easily checked. At last, when she could say no more, my dear maid said quietly:
“What I have done, Hugh should have done long since. We are to live together, I trust, madam, for many years, and I love you well; but you have said things to me not easy to forget. I beg to insist that you apologise. For lighter things men kill one another. I await, madam, your excuses.”
It was a fine sight to see how this fiery little bit of a woman faced my tall, strong aunt, who towered above her, her large face red with wrath.
“Never!” she cried. “I have been—it is I who am insulted and put to shame, in my own house, by a chit of a miss.”
“Then good-by,” said Darthea, and was by me and out of the house before I could see what to do or know what to say.
“She is gone!” I cried. “Oh, Aunt Gainor, you have broken my heart!”
“What did I say, Hugh?” said my aunt. I do truly think she did not know what she had said; and now she was off and I after her, knocking over Caesar and our belated candles, and out of doors after Darthea. I saw her join her a few yards away, and did wisely to hold back. I knew well the child-heart my aunt carried within that spacious bosom.
What the pair of them said I do not know. In a few minutes they were back again, both in tears, the whole wretched business at an end. I thought it better to go away and leave them, but my aunt cried out:
“Wait, sir! I am an old ass! If either of you ever mention this thing again, I—I will wring your necks. I make free to say that some day you will both regret it; but it is your affair and not mine. O Lord! if Cat Ferguson ever comes to know it—”
“She never will,” said Darthea; “and we will love you and love you, dear, dear mother, and I am sorry I hurt you; but I had to—I had to. If I was wise, I know not; but I had to end it—I had to.”
Never before had I heard the sweet woman call my aunt mother. She often did so in after-years. It melted the old spinster, and she fell to kissing her, saying:
“Yes, I am your mother, child, and always will be.” But ever after Mistress Wynne was a trifle afraid of my little lady, and there were no more such scenes.
When my aunt was gone away to bed, though not to sleep, I fear, my dear maid came and sat at my feet on a cushion, and for a time was silent. At last, looking up, she said, “Hugh, was I wrong to burn it!”
Then I was silent a little while, but from the first I was resolved to be ever outright and plain with my lady, who was impulsive, and would need help and counsel and government, that her character might grow, as it did in after-years. I said: “Yes, Darthea. It is better for me to tell you the simple truth. It would have made no difference had the deed been left undestroyed; it would only have given you the chance to know me better, and to learn that no consideration would have made me take these lands, even had our title been clear. Now you have destroyed my power of choice. I am not angry, not even vexed; but another time trust me, dear.”
“I see! I see!” she exclaimed. “What have I done?” And she began to sob. “I was—was wicked not to trust you, and foolish; and now I see Aunt Gainor had reason to be angry. But you are good and brave to tell me. I could not have said what you said; I should have declared you were right. And now I know it was weakness, not strength, that made me do it. I shall pray God to forgive me. Kiss me, Hugh; I love you twice as much as ever I did before.”
When I had done her sweet bidding, I said, “Darthea, let us forget all this. Wrong or right, I at least am pleased to have the thing at rest forever; and, wrong or right; I thank you. I was honest, Darthea, when I said so; and now good-night.” At this she looked me in the eyes and went Gainor.
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