Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker Part 27

He said nothing, nor had he a chance, for I instantly answered the colonel: "My father can tell you."

"About what, Hugh?"

"About how we lost our Welsh estate."

My father at this lifted his great bulk upright in the old Penn chair, and seemed more alive.

"It is Colonel Tarleton who asks, not I."

"It is an old story." He spoke quite like himself. "Our cousin must know it well. My father suffered for conscience' sake, and, being a Friend, would pay no t.i.thes. For this he was cast into jail in Shrewsbury Gate House, and lay there a year, suffering much in body, but at peace, it may surely be thought, as to his soul. At last he was set free on condition that he should leave the country."

"And the estate?" asked Tarleton.

"He thought little of that. It was heavily charged with debt made by his father's wild ways. I believe, too, there was some agreement with the officers of the crown that he should make over the property to his next brother, who had none of his scruples. This was in 1670, or thereabouts.

A legal transfer was made to my uncle, who, I think, loved my father, and understood that, being set in his ways, he would defy the king's authority to the end. And so--wisely I think--the overruling providence of G.o.d brought us to a new land, where we have greatly prospered."

"And that is all?" said the colonel. "What a strange story! And so you are Wynne of Wyneote, and lost it."

"For a greater gain," said my father. "My son has a silly fancy for the old place, but it is lost--lost--sold; and if we could have it at a word, it would grieve me to see him cast in his lot among a set of drunken, dicing, hard-riding squires--a G.o.dless set. It will never be if I can help it. My son has left the creed of his father and of mine, and I am glad that his worldly pride cannot be further tempted. Dost thou hear, Hugh?"

There was a moment of awkward silence. My father had spoken with violence, once or twice striking the table with his fist until the gla.s.ses rang. There was something of his old vehemence in his statement; but as a rule, however abrupt when we were alone, before strangers he was as civil to me as to others. My cousin, I thought, looked relieved as my father went on; and, ceasing to drum on the table, he quietly filled himself a gla.s.s of Hollands.

I was puzzled. What interest had Arthur to lie about the value of Wyncote if it was irretrievably lost to us? As my father ended, he glanced at me with more or less of his old keenness of look, smiling a little as he regarded me. The pause which came after was brief, as I have said; for my reflections, such as they were, pa.s.sed swiftly through my mind, and were as complete as was under the circ.u.mstances possible.

"I am sorry for you," said Tarleton. "An old name is much, but one likes to have with it all the memories that go with its ancient home."

"That is true," said I; "and, if my father will pardon me, I like still to say that I would have Wyncote to-day if I could."

"Thou canst not," said my father. "And what we cannot have--what G.o.d has willed that we shall not have--it were wise and well to forget. It is my affair, and none of thine. Wilt thou taste some of my newly come Madeira, Friend Tarleton?"

The colonel said "No," and shortly after left us, my cousin going with him.

My father sat still for a while, and then said as I rose, "I trust to hear no more of this nonsense. Thy aunt and thy mother have put it in thy foolish head. I will have no more of it--no more. Dost thou hear?"

I said I would try to satisfy him, and so the thing came to an end.

The day after this singular talk, which so much puzzled me, Arthur said at breakfast that he should be pleased to go with me on the river for white perch. I hesitated; but, my father saying, "Certainly; he shall go with thee. I do not need him," I returned that I would be ready at eleven.

We pulled over toward Petty's Island, and when half-way my cousin, who was steering, and had been very silent for him, said:

"Let her drift a bit; I want to talk to you."

I sat still and listened.

"Why do not you join our army? A commission were easily had."

I replied that he knew my sentiments well, and that his question was absurd.

"No," he said; "I am your friend, although you do not think so. By George! were I you, I would be on one side or the other. I like my friends to do what is manly and decisive." "Holloa!" thinks I; "has Darthea been talking? And why does he, an officer of the king, want me to go?"

"I shall go some day," I replied, "but when, I know not yet. It seems to me queer counsel to give a good rebel. When does Miss p.e.n.i.ston return?"

I said.

"What the deuce has that got to do with it? Yes, she is coming back, of course, and soon; but why do not you join your army?"

"Let us drop that," I said. "There are many reasons; I prefer not to discuss the matter."

"Very good," he said; "and, Hugh, you heard a heap of nonsense last night about Wyncote. Tarleton had too much of your father's rum-punch.

Your people were lucky to lose the old place, and how these tales of our being rich arose I cannot imagine. Come and see us some day, and you will no longer envy the lot of beggared Welsh squires."

All of this only helped the more to make me disbelieve him; but the key to his lies I had not, and so I merely said it would be many a day before that could happen.

"Perhaps," he returned; "but who knows? The war will soon be over."

"When will Miss p.e.n.i.ston be in town?" said I.

He was not sure; but said I put it in his mind to say something.

"Well?" said I, on my guard.

He went on: "I am a frank man, Cousin Hugh."

At times he was, and strangely so; then the next minute he would be indirect or lie to you. The mixture made it hard to understand what he was after.

"I trust," he went on, "that you will pardon me if I say that in England custom does not sanction certain freedoms which in the colonies seem to be regarded as of no moment. I am not of this opinion. Miss p.e.n.i.ston is, I hope, to be my wife. She is young, impulsive, and--well, no matter.

Some men take these things coolly; I do not. I am sure you will have the good sense to agree with me. When a woman is pledged to a man, it is fit that she should be most guarded in her relations with other men. I--"

Here I broke in, "What on earth does all this mean?"

"I will tell you. Your aunt writes now and then to Miss p.e.n.i.ston."

"Certainly," said I.

"Yes; she says, too, things concerning you and that lady which are not to my taste."

"Indeed!"

"I have been so honoured as to see some of these famous epistles. I think Darthea is pleased to torment me at times; it is her way, as you may happen to know. Also, and this is more serious, you have yourself written to Darthea."

"I have, and several times. Why not?"

"These letters," he went on, "she has refused to show to me. Now I want to say--and you will pardon me--that I permit no man to write to a woman whom I am to marry unless I do not object."

"Well?" I said, beginning to smile, after my unmanageable habit.

"Here I do object."

"What if I say that, so long as Miss p.e.n.i.ston does not seem displeased, I care not one farthing who objects!"