Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker Part 22

"d.a.m.n it, doctor!" returned Le Clere. "It is no use to talk. I never imagined that youngster would take me at my word."

"You will be in hot water here," said the doctor. "I would advise you to get away, and soon."

"And we shall supply amus.e.m.e.nt to every mess in the army," said Woodville, with an abundance of bad language. "Quakers indeed!"

Jack's eyes opened, and he said, "Thou art not hurt, Hugh?"

"No, no!" I answered, and, relieved a little, turned to Mr. Le Clere: "We shall, I fear, have to ask thy chaise of thee. We came afoot. I will send it back at once."

Le Clere said, "Of course; with all my heart."

"Thou wilt pardon me," said I, "if I advise thee to accept the doctor's advice, and get away with all speed. I should be sorry if thou wert arrested. The feeling against gentlemen of thy profession is unhappily strong just now."

Le Clere looked me over with a quick glance of something like curiosity, and said, as he gave his hand, "You are a gallant gentleman, Mr. Wynne.

You will permit an older man to say so. I trust we may meet again. Are all Quakers as clever at swordplay?"

I said a civil word, seeing Jack smile as he lay with my b.l.o.o.d.y coat under his head. Then, as I remembered that perhaps Mr. Woodville might not be satisfied, I went up to him and said, "I am at thy service, sir, if thou art not contented to let us be quit of this matter."

"It must needs rest now," he replied. "d.a.m.n your tricks!"

"Sir!" said I.

"Holloa!" says Le Clere; "this won't do. Keep your temper. This way, Mr.

Wynne." And he drew me aside.

It was full time; I was beginning to get my blood up, and was in a rage.

"This comes," he said, "of going out with a fellow that has risen from the ranks. Why do your ladies receive every one who wears a red coat?

Let me help you with your friend. I am most sorry. For my share, I have a neat reminder in the shoulder. Mr. Warder has the wrist of a blacksmith"--which was true, and for good reason.

There is no need to tell of the wrath and incapacity of poor Jack's father, I got away as soon as Dr. Rush arrived, and, promising to return in an hour, went off with a smile from my Jack, and a "Thank G.o.d! Hugh, that it was not thou who had the worst of it."

It was about seven as I knocked at my aunt's door, and, pa.s.sing the black page, ran upstairs. My aunt was in the breakfast-room; she came to meet me in a morning gown, and to my astonishment was very tranquil, but with eyes that looked anxious, and far more red than common.

"Sit down, sir. I want to hear about this ridiculous business."

"It may seem so to thee," said I; "I am glad if it amuses thee."

"Stuff! Talk decent English, man. That was like your father. Is--are you--is any one hurt?"

I said that was what we went for, and so told her the whole sorry business.

"And it was for me, sir!" she cried; "for me! And my dear brave girl-boy! Is it dangerous?"

I hoped not. We had both left our marks on the English officers. That she liked. Then she was silent awhile.

"Here is come a note from the kitten. Will you have it? It may be all you will ever get of her. She says she has held her tongue; I can't--I don't believe her--and asks me to let her know if any are hurt. I will. Does she suppose gentlemen go out just to look at one another?

Ridiculous!"

I spoke at last of my father; of how he would take this matter, of his increasing acerbity, and of my own unhappy life, where I found nothing to replace my mother's love. My last disaster and poor Jack's wound seemed like enough to widen the gap between me and my parent, and my Aunt Gainor was troubled.

"You must be first to tell him," said my aunt. "I think he will say but little. He has given you up as a sheep lost in the darkness of iniquity, and too black to be found easily."

I begged her not to jest. I was sore and sick at heart.

"Eat your breakfast," she said, "and get it over with your father."

I hurried through the meal, and went upstairs, to find my sleeve full of blood, although no harm had been done but what was easily set right by what Dr. Rush called a bit of diachylon plaster. (I think I spell it correctly.)

As I went by Darthea's home I cast a glance up at the open window, and saw my lady looking out. She was pale, and as she called to me I could not but go in, for, indeed, she ran herself to open the door.

"Come in! Oh, just a moment!" she cried. "Your aunt has written me a note, and it tells me almost nothing--nothing."

I was in no very kindly humour with Miss Darthea. Since our talk about my cousin she had been very high and mighty, and would have little to say to me except unpleasant things about the angry politics of the day.

I said I was glad to have heard she had told no one of what my aunt's rash speech had let slip. I had better have held my own tongue. Darthea was in another mood to-day, and all at once became quiet and dignified.

"I gave my word, Mr. Wynne. When you know me better you will learn that I can keep it. Is--is Mr. Warder much hurt?"

"Yes," I said; "he is in great peril." I saw how anxious she was, and was vexed enough to want to hurt her.

"Oh, you men! you men!" she cried. "Will he die, do you think? Poor boy!" She sat down and began to cry. "He must not die; why did you lead him into such wicked trouble?"

It was vain to explain how little I had to do with the matter. Did she love Jack? I little knew in those days how tender was this gentle heart, how it went out, tendril-like, seeking it knew not what, and was for this reason ever liable to say too much, and to give rise to misapprehension.

"O Darthea!" I cried. "Dost thou love my Jack? I shall be the last to come in his way. I have said I love thee myself, and I can never change.

But how can it be? how can it be? And my cousin? O Darthea!"

"I love no one, sir. I love everybody. I--I think you are impertinent, Mr. Wynne. Is it your business whom I love? My G.o.d! there is blood on your hand! Are you hurt?"

It was true; a little blood was trickling down my wrist. She was all tenderness again. I must not go; here was her handkerchief; and so on--till I longed to take her in my arms, she made me so sorry for her I said it was of no moment, and I must go.

"You will come soon again, and tell me about Jack."

I went away, not wondering that all the world should love her.

I hastened to Jack's home, and there found Dr. Rush and Dr. Glentworth, who was later to be the physician of Mr. Washington. My aunt, preceding me, had taken possession. Mr. Warder was reduced to a condition of abject obedience, and for a month and more my aunt hardly left her girl-boy's pillow. Indeed, it was long before I was let to see him, and then he was but a spectre of himself, with not enough blood to blush with. Our officers very promptly left for New York the day after our fight, and we heard no more of them.

It would have been of little use to tell this long story but for the consequences to me and to others. I should have done well to see my father at once; but I could not get away, and sat till noon, asking every now and then what I could do, and if Jack were better, despite the fact that I was told he was doing well.

Mr. Warder was one of those people who, once a crisis seems over, must still be doing something, and to be rid of him he was sent by my aunt to get certain articles the doctors did or did not need. It seemed wise to this gentleman, having completed his errands, to pay a visit of condolence to my father, and thus it was that greater mischief was made.

About two I got away, and set forth to see my parent. Already the news was out, and I was stopped over and over to explain what had happened.

It was the hour of dinner; for Friends dined at two, but my aunt and the gayer set at four.

My father turned from his meal, and coldly looked me all over,--my arm was in a sling, on which Dr. Rush had insisted,--and last into my eyes.

"Well," he said, "thou art come at last. Fortunately, Friend Warder has been here, and I know thy story and the mischief into which thou hast led his poor lad. It is time we had a settlement, thou and I. Hast thou fear neither of G.o.d nor of man? A rebellious son, and a defier of authority! It is well thy mother is dead before she saw thee come to this ruin of soul and body."

"My G.o.d! father," I cried; "how canst thou hurt me thus! I am in sorrow for Jack, and want help. To whom should I go but to thee? O mother, mother!" I looked around at the bare walls, and down at the sanded floor, and could only bury my face in my hands and weep like a baby.