Part 57 (1/2)

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 p.e.n.i.ston pus.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d, 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. G.o.d 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: