Part 17 (1/2)

XII

On September 1, 1773, and earlier than had been meant, my father set sail for London with my ever dear mother. Many a.s.sembled to see the ”Fair Trader” leave her moorings. I went with my people as far as Lewes, and on account of weather had much ado to get ash.o.r.e. The voyage down the Delaware was slow, for from want of proper lights we must needs lay by at night, and if winds were contrary were forced to wait for the ebb.

While I was with them my father spoke much to me of business, but neither blamed my past, nor praised my later care and a.s.siduity in affairs. He was sure the king would have his way, and, I thought, felt sorry to have so readily given up the consignees.h.i.+p of the teas. I was otherwise minded, and I asked what was to be done in the event of certain troubles such as many feared. He said that Thomas, his old clerk, would decide, and my Aunt Gainor had a power of attorney; as to the troubles I spoke of, he well knew that I meant such idle disturbances of peace as James Wilson and Wetherill were doing their best to bring about.

”Thy Cousin Arthur is better advised,” he said, ”and a man of sound judgment. Thou mightst seek worse counsel on occasion of need.”

I was surprised at this, for I should have believed, save as to the king, they could not have had one opinion in common.

Far other were those sweeter talks I had with my mother, as we sat on the deck in a blaze of sunlight. She burned ever a handsome brown, without freckles, and loved to sit out, even in our great heats. She would have me be careful at my aunt's not to be led into idleness; for the rest I had her honest trust; and her blue eyes, bright with precious tears, declared her love, and hopeful belief. I must not neglect my French--it would keep her in mind; and she went on in that tongue to say what a joy I had been in her life, and how even my follies had let her see how true a gentleman I was. Then, and never before, did she say a thing which left on my mind a fear that life had not brought and kept for her throughout all the happiness which so good and n.o.ble a creature deserved.

”There is much of thy father in thee, Hugh. Thou art firm as he is, and fond of thine own way. This is not bad, if thou art thoughtful to see that thy way is a good way. But do not grow hard. And when thou art come to love some good woman, do not make her life difficult.”

”But I love no woman, _ma mere_,” I cried, ”and never shall, as I love thee. It is the whole of my love thou hast, _chere, chere maman_; thou hast it all.”

”Ah, then I shall know to divide with her, Hugh; and I shall be generous too. If thou hast any little fancies that way, thou must write and tell me. Oh, _mon fils_, thou wilt write often, and I must know all the news.

I do hear that Darthea p.e.n.i.ston is in thy aunt's house a good deal, and Madam Ferguson, the gossip, would have me believe thou carest for her, and that Arthur Wynne is taken in the same net. I liked her. I did not tell thee that thy Aunt Gainor left her with me for an hour while she went into King street to bargain for a great china G.o.d. What a gay, winning creature it is! She must needs tell me all about herself. Why do people so unlock their hearts for me?”

I laughed, and said she had a key called love; and on this she kissed me, and asked did I say such pretty things to other women? Darthea was now to live with her aunt, that stiff Mistress p.e.n.i.ston, who was a fierce Tory. ”She will have a fine bargain of the girl. She has twenty ways with her, real or false, and can make music of them all like a mocking-bird. Dost thou like her, Hugh?--I mean Darthea.”

I said, ”Yes.”

”And so do I,” she ran on. ”I loved her at sight. But if ever thou dost come to love her--and I see signs, oh, I see signs--if ever,--then beware of thy Cousin Wynne. I heard him once say to thy father, 'If there is only one gla.s.s of the Madeira left, I want it, because there is only one.' And there is only one of a good woman. What another wants that man is sure to want, and I do not like him, Hugh. Thou dost, I think. He has some reason to linger here. Is it this woman? Or would lie spy out the land to know what we mean to do? I am sure he has orders to watch the way things are going, or why should not he have gone with Sir Guy Carleton to Quebec? It is a roundabout way to go through Philadelphia.”

I said I did not know; but her words set me to thinking, and to wondering, too, as I had not done before. Another time she asked me why Arthur talked so as to disgust my father out of all idea of going to see the home of his ancestors. I promised to be careful of my relations with my cousin, whom I liked less and less as time ran on.

At Lewes we parted. Shall I ever forget it? Those great blue eyes above the gunwale, and then a white handkerchief, and then no more. When I could no longer see the s.h.i.+p's hull I climbed a great sand-dune, and watched even the masts vanish on the far horizon. It was to me a solemn parting. The seas were wide and perilous in those days, the buccaneers not all gone, and the trading s.h.i.+p was small, I thought, to carry a load so precious.

As the sun went down I walked over the dunes, which are of white sand, and forever s.h.i.+fting, so as at one time to threaten with slow burial the little town, and at another to be moving on to the forest. As they changed, old wrecks came into view, and I myself saw sticking out the bones of sailors buried here long ago, or haply cast ash.o.r.e. A yet stranger thing I beheld, for the strong northwest wind, which blew hard all day and favoured the ”Fair Trader,” had so cast about the fine sand that the buried snow of last winter was to be seen, which seemed to me a thing most singular. When I told Jack, he made verses about it, as he did sometimes, but would show them only to me. I forget entirely what he wrote; how a man can make verses and dig rhymes out of his head has always been to me a puzzle.

At the town inn, ”The Lucky Fisherman,” I saw, to my surprise, Jack on horseback, just arrived. He said he had a debt to collect for his father. It was no doubt true, for Jack could not tell even the mildest fib and not get rose-red. But he knew how I grieved at this separation from my mother, and, I think, made an occasion to come down and bear me company on my long ride home. I was truly glad to have him. Together we wandered through the great woodlands Mr. Penn had set aside to provide firewood forever for the poor of Lewes.

The next day we sent Tom on ahead with our sacks to Newcastle, where we meant to bait ourselves and our horses. But first we rode down the coast to Rehoboth, and had a n.o.ble sea-bath; also above the beach was a bit of a fresh-water lake, most delicious to take the salt off the skin. After this diversion, which as usual dismissed my blue devils, we set out up the coast of the Bay of Delaware, and were able to reach Newcastle that evening, and the day after our own homes.

This ride gave us a fine chance for talk, and we made good use of it.

As we pa.s.sed between the hedges and below the old Swede church nigh, to Wilmington, Jack fell into talk of Darthea p.e.n.i.ston. Why we had not done so before I knew not then; we were both shy of the subject. I amused myself by insisting that she was but a light-minded young woman with no strong basis of character, and too fond of a red coat. It did amuse me to see how this vexed Jack, who would by no means accept my verdict. We conversed far longer on the stormy quarrels of the colonies and their stepmother England, who seemed to have quite forgot of what blood and breed they were.

Concerning my Cousin Wynne, with whom at first I had been much taken, Jack was not inclined to speak freely. This I foolishly thought was because Arthur laughed at him, and was, as he knew, of some folks'

notion that Jack was a feminine kind of a fellow. That he had the quick insight and the heart of a woman was true, but that was not all of my dear Jack.

My aunt came back to town early in September, and I took up my abode in her town house, where a new life began for me. Letters went and came at long intervals. Our first reached me far on in October.

My mother wrote: ”There is great anger here in London because of this matter of the tea. Lord Germaine says we are a tumultuous rabble; thy father has been sent for by Lord North, and I fear has spoken unadvisedly as to things at home. It is not well for a wife to differ with her husband, and this I will not; nevertheless I am not fully of his way of thinking as to these sad troubles; this, however, is not for any eye or ear but thine. Benjamin, Franklin was here to see us last week. He seems to think we might as well, or better, pay for the tea, and this suited thy father; but after thus agreeing they went wide apart, Franklin having somewhat shed his Quaker views. I did fear at times that the talk would be strong.

”When he had gone away, thy father said he never had the Spirit with him, and was ever of what creed did most advantage him, and perhaps underneath of none at all. But this I think not. He hath much of the shrewd wisdom of New England, which I like not greatly; but as to this, I know some who have less of any wisdom, and, after all, I judge not a man so wise, and so much my elder.

”General Gage, lately come hither on a visit, we are told a.s.sured the king that no other colony would stand by Ma.s.sachusetts, and that four regiments could put an end to the matter. I am no politician, but it makes me angry to hear them talk of us as if we were but a nursery of naughty children. It seems we are to pay for the tea, and until we do no s.h.i.+ps may enter Boston harbour. Also all crown officers who may commit murder are to be tried in England; and there is more, but I forget.”

This was most of it fresh news to us. Meanwhile Hutchinson, the governor of the rebel State, was a.s.suring Lord North that to resist was against our interest, and we, being ”a trading set,” would never go to extremes.

”As if,” said Wilson, ”nations, like men, had not pa.s.sions and emotions, as well as day-books and ledgers.”