The next day, having seen to matters of business in the morning, I set out after dinner in my finest clothes to join my friends. I fear that I promised my mother to be careful, and to be at home by nine o’clock.
I met Captain Montresor at the London Coffeehouse, at High and Front streets, and, having taken a chaise, drove out through the woods to the upper ferry, and thence to Egglesfield, the seat of Mr. Warner, from whom the club known then as “The Colony in Schuylkill” held under a curious tenure the acre or two of land where they had built a log cabin and founded this ancient and singular institution. Here were met Anthony Morris, who fell at Trenton, Mr. Tench Francis, sometime Attorney-General, Mifflin, and that Galloway who later became a Tory, with Mr. Willing, and others of less note, old and young. I was late for the annual ceremony of presenting three fish to Mr. Warner, this being the condition on which the soil was held, but I saw the great pewter dish with the Penn arms, a gift from that family, on which the fish were offered.
It was a merry and an odd party; for, clad in white aprons, the apprentices, so called, cooked the dinner and served it; and the punch and Madeira went round the table often enough, as the “king’s health” was drunk, and “success to trade,” and “the ladies, God bless them!”
I liked it well, and, with my aunt’s warning in mind, drank but little, and listened to the talk, which was too free at times, as was the bad custom of that day, and now and then angry; for here were some who were to die for their country, and some who were to fail it in the hour of need.
Despite my English friends, and thanks to Mr. Wilson and my Aunt Gainor, I was fast becoming an ardent Whig, so that the talk, in which I had small share, interested me deeply. At last, about seven, the pipes having been smoked and much punch taken, the company rose to go, some of them the worse for their potations.
We drove into town, and at the coffee-house put up and paid for our chaise. I said good-by to Mr. Montresor, who, I think, had been charged by Miss Wynne to look after me, when a Captain Small, whom I knew, stopped me. He was well known as one of the most reckless of the younger officers, a stout, short man, rather heroically presented long afterward, in Trumbull’s picture of the “Death of Warren,” as trying to put aside the bayonets. As I paused to reply, I saw Jack Warder standing on the other side of the street. He nodded, smiling, and made as if he were about to cross over. He had many times talked with me seriously this winter, until I had become vexed, and told them he was a milksop. After this I saw little of him. Now I was annoyed at the idea that he was spying upon my actions, and therefore, like a fool, merely nodded, and, turning my back on him, heard Mr. Small say: “You must not go yet, Mr. Wynne. We are to have supper upstairs, and you will like to see a gentleman of your name, Mr. Arthur Wynne, of the Scots Grays. He tells me he is of distant kin to you.”
Montresor said I had better go home, but Etherington asked if I wanted my bottle and nurse; and so at last, partly from pride and partly out of curiosity to see this other Wynne, I said I would remain long enough to welcome the gentleman and take a social glass. When we entered the room upstairs, I found a supper of cold meats and, as usual, punch and liquors. There were two dozen or more officers in undress jackets, their caps and swords in the corners, and also two or three of the younger men of the Tory or doubtful parties.
Several officers called to me to sit with them, for I was a favourite, and could troll a catch or sing parts fairly well. My companion, Small, said, “This way, Wynne,” and, followed by Montresor and the colonel of the Scots Grays, whose name I forget, we moved to a table remote from the door. Here Montresor, pushing past Small, said: “Captain Wynne, I have the honour to present to you Mr. Hugh Wynne, one of your family, I hear.”
Upon this there rose to greet me a gentleman in the undress uniform of the Grays. He was tall and well built, but not so broad or strong as we other Wynnes; certainly an unusually handsome man. He carried his head high, was very erect, and had an air of distinction, for which at that time I should have had no name. I may add that he was dressed with unusual neatness, and very richly; all of which, I being but a half-formed young fellow, did much impress me.
He looked at me so steadily as we came near that it gave me a rather unpleasant impression; for those who do not meet the eye at all are scarcely less disagreeable than those who too continually watch you, as was this man’s way. I was rather young to be a very careful observer of men’s faces, but I did see that Captain Wynne’s bore traces of too convivial habits.
As I recall his dark, regular features, I remember, for we met often afterward, that the lower part of his face was too thin, and that in repose his mouth was apt not to remain fully shut, a peculiarity, as I now think, of persons of weak will.
My first feeling of there being something unpleasing about him soon left me. He rose, and, with graciousness and the ease and manner of one used to the best society, moved around the table and took my hand.
“I am but a far-away kinsman,” he said, “but I am charmed to make your acquaintance. You are like the picture of old Sir Robert at Wyncote, where I was last year for the otter-hunting.”
I greeted him warmly. “And art thou living at Wyneote?” I asked rather awkwardly.
“No, I do not live at home. I am but a cadet, and yours is the elder branch.” Then he added gaily, “I salute you, sir, as the head of our old house. Your very good health!” And at this, with a charm of manner I have seen but rarely, he put a hand on my shoulder, and added, “We must be friends, Cousin Wynne, and I must know your father, and above all Mistress Wynne. Montresor never ceases talking of her.”
I said it would give me pleasure to present him; then, delighted to hear of Wyncote, I sat down, and, despite a warning look from Montresor, began to take wine with this newly found kinsman.
Mr. Arthur Wynne was a man fully ten years my senior. He had served in the Guards, and in the Indies, and was full of stories of court and camp and war, such as every young fellow of spirit likes to hear.
Captain Montresor lingered awhile, and then, finding it vain to persist in his purpose, gave it up, and fell to talking with one of his fellow-officers, while I went on questioning my cousin as to the Wynnes to their uttermost generation. Either he cared little about them, or he knew little, for he seemed much to prefer to tell queer stories about the court ladies, and my Lord Chesterfield’s boor of a son, who had such small manners and such a large appetite, and of Sir Guy Carleton, whom he was about to join in Canada. He advised me to get a pair of colours as my aunt had once desired, and seemed surprised when I paraded my friend Mr. Wilson’s opinions as my own, and talked of taxation and the oppression under which commerce had to be carried on. In fact, as to this I knew something; but in this, as in other matters, he deferred to me as one does to a well-informed talker of one’s own age, now setting me right with admirable courtesy, and now cordially agreeing.
What with his evident desire to be friendly, and the wine I was taking, I fell an easy prey to one who rarely failed to please when he was so minded. Too well amused to reflect that the hours were swiftly passing, I sat, taking glass after glass mechanically. As the night went on we had more punch, and the dice began to rattle on the tables, despite the landlord’s remonstrance, who feared to fall into the hands of the law and lose his licence. But a lively major called out that here was licence enough, and hustled him out of the room, calling for more rum-punch, and stronger.
Meanwhile the smoke grew thick and thicker. Here and there a song broke out, and the clink of coin and the rattle of dice went on. Then, when at last Montresor came to our table and said he was going, and would I come too, I rose, and, bidding my kinsman good-by, went with the captain. I heard him swear as he found the door locked. No one seemed to know who had the key, and as for me, not ill-pleased, and past feeling regret, I turned back and stood over a table where some officers were throwing a main.
Then I saw in a corner a poor fellow who used to be an usher at the academy, and who, having taken to drink, had lost his place. Now he was a sort of servitor in the coffee-house, and had gotten locked up in the room and could not escape. He had taken refuge in a corner at a deserted table, and, sitting unnoticed, was solacing himself with what was left of a bowl of punch. A sense of not altogether maudlin pity came upon me, and I went over and sat down beside him. No one took any heed of us. The air was heavy with pipe-smoke, oaths, mad catches of song, clink of glasses, and rattle of dice noisily cast, with here and there a toast cried; so that it was hard to see for the smoke, or to hear a man speak.
“Why, Savoy! How earnest thou here?” I said.
“The devil fetched me, I guess.”
He was far gone in liquor. “I am like Mr. Sterne’s starling: ‘I can’t get out.’ Ever read Mr. Sterne’s—what is it?—oh, his ‘Sentimental Journey’?”
Here was one worse than I, and I felt inclined to use what Friends call a precious occasion, a way being opened.
“This is a sad business, Savoy,” I said.
“Dre’ful,” he returned. “Facilis descensus taverni. No use to talk to me. I am tired of life. I am going to die. Some men shoot themselves, some like the rope, and some cold water. You know what Bishop what’s-his-name—I mean Jeremy Taylor—says about ways to die: ‘None please me.’ But drink is the best. I mean to drink myself dead—dead—d—dead,” and here he fell on to my shoulder. Letting him down easily, I loosed his neckerchief, and stood beside him, pitiful and shocked. Then in a moment I felt that I was drunk. The room whirled, and with an effort I got to the open window, stumbling over legs of men, who looked up from their cards and cursed me.
Of what chanced after this I knew for a time but little, until I was in one instant sobered. This was an hour later, and nigh to twelve o’clock. What took place I heard from others; and, as it concerns a turning-point in my life, I shall try to relate it as if I myself had been conscious all the while.
The better for air, I went over to a table in the centre of the room not far from the door. Leaning heavily on Captain Small’s shoulder, I threw on the table the last gold joe my aunt had given me with her final lesson in morals.
“Best in three, Etherington.”
“Take it,” he cried.
I threw double sixes, he threes, and I deuce ace. Then he cast some numbers as good. Certainly the devil meant to have me. I threw a third time; a six and a five turned up, and he an ace and a four. I had won. “Double or quits,” I said; “one throw.” I won again, and at this I went on until the pile of gold grew beneath my eyes, amid laughter, curses, and all manner of vileness. Presently I heard the colonel exclaim, “This won’t do, gentlemen,” and I felt some one trying to draw me from the table. It was Captain Wynne. I cried out, “Hands off! no liberties with me! I am the head of thy house; thou art only a cadet.” He laughed as I pushed him aside.
“You said double or quits,” cried the stout major. How he got into the game I knew not.
“It is a mere boy! for shame!” cried the colonel. “I forbid it.”
“I am a gentleman,” I said. “Thou canst order thy officers; thou canst not order me,” and as I spoke I cast so hard that I crushed the box. I heard some one cry, “A damn pretty Quaker! By George, he has lost! A clean hundred pounds!” Even in this drunken revel there was a pause for a moment. I was, after all, but a tipsy lad of twenty, and some were just not far enough gone to feel that it might look to others an ugly business. The colonel said something to Major Milewood as to disrespect, I hardly know what; for at this moment there was a loud knocking at the door. In the lull that followed I heard the colonel’s voice.
Then the tumult broke out anew. “By Jove, it is a woman!” cried Wynne. “I hear her. Wine and women! A guinea to a guinea she’s pretty!”
“Done!” cried some one.
“Here’s the key,” said the major; “let’s have her in.”
“Place aux dames,” hiccoughed a cornet.
The colonel rose, but it was too late. Wynne, seizing the key, unlocked the door and threw it wide open, as my mother, followed by Jack Warder, entered the room, and stood still a moment, dazed.
Captain Wynne, leering and unsteady, caught at her waist, exclaiming, “By George! she might be younger, but I’ve won. A toast! a toast! A Quaker, by George!”
Whether I was sobered or not, I know not. I can only say that of a sudden I was myself, and strangely quiet. I saw the dear lady, brave, beautiful, and with her curls falling about her neck, as she shrank back from the man’s touch.
“Come, Hugh,” she said.
“Yes, mother,” I said; “but first—” and I struck Captain Wynne full in the face, so that, unprepared as he was, he fell over a table and on to the floor.
Every one started up. There was instant silence.
In a moment he was on his feet, and, like myself, another man. Turning, he said, with amazing coolness, wiping the blood away, for I was strong, and had hit hard, “Madam, I beg your pardon; we have been behaving like beasts, and I am fitly punished. As to you, Mr. Wynne, you are a boy, and have undertaken to rough it with men. This shall go no further.”
“It shall go where I please,” I cried.
“No, no; Hugh, Hugh!” said my mother.
“‘We will talk it over to-morrow,” said the captain; and then, turning, “I mean, gentlemen, that this shall stop here. If any man thinks I am wrong, let him say so. I shall know how to settle accounts with him.”
“No, no,” said the colonel; “you are right, and if any officer thinks otherwise, I too am at his service.” In the silence which came after he added, “Permit me, madam;” and offering his arm to my mother, we street and the reproachful calm of the starlit April night.
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