“And what think you, John?”
“What will my wife say, Gainor? We have never been a month apart.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“Wilt thou share in the venture?” He was testing the sincerity of her
advice. “And to what extent?”
“Five thousand pounds. You may draw on me from London, and buy powder
and muskets,” she added, with a smile.
“Not I. Why dost thou talk such folly?”
“Then Holland blankets and good cloth. I will take them off your hands
at a fair profit.”
“I see no objection to that.”
My aunt gave me a queer look, saying, “The poor will need them. I shall
sell them cheap.”
It was singular that I caught her meaning, while my father, reflecting
on the venture as a whole, did not.
“I will do it,” he said.
“Then a word more. Be careful here as to debts. Why not wind up your
business, and retire with the profit you will make?” It was the same
advice my mother had given, as I well knew.
“Hast thou been talking to my wife?” he said.
“No,” she replied, surprised; “may I?”
“Yes. As to going out of business, Gainor, I should be but a lost man. I
am not as well-to-do as thou dost seem to think.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried my aunt. “I believe Thomas Willing is no
better off in what you call this world’s gear, nor Franks, nor any
of them. You like the game, and, after all, what is it but a kind of
gambling? How do you know what hands the ocean holds? Your ventures are
no better than my guineas cast down on the loo-table.” These two could
never discuss anything but what it must end in a difference.
“Thou art a fool, Gainor, to talk such wicked nonsense before this boy.
It is not worth an answer. I hear no good of Hugh of late. He hath been
a concern to James Pemberton and to my friend, Nicholas Wain, and to
me--to me. Thy gambling and idle redcoats are snares to his soul. He has
begun to have opinions of his own as to taxes, and concerning the plain
duty of non-resistance. As if an idle dog like him had any right to have
an opinion at all!”
“Tut! tut!” cried Miss Wynne.
“I am not idle,” I said, “if I am a dog.”
He turned and seized me by the collar. “I will teach thee to answer thy
elders.” And with this he shook me violently, and caught up a cane from
a chair where he had laid it.
And now, once again, that disposition to be merry came over me, and,
perfectly passive, I looked up at him and smiled. As I think of it, it
was strange in a young fellow of my age.
[Illustration: “I WILL TEACH THEE TO ANSWER THY ELDERS” Page 84 Hugh
Wynne]
[Transcriber’s Note: In the illustration, two men and a woman stand in
a room. One of the men is holding a stick over his head; the woman has
grabbed his hand at the wrist. The other man looks on.]
“Wouldst thou laugh?” he cried. “Has it gone that far?” and he raised
his stick. My Aunt Gainor jerked it out of his hand, and, standing,
broke it over her knee as if it had been a willow wand.
He fell back, crying, “Gainor! Gainor!”
“My God! man,” she cried, “are you mad? If I were you I would take some
heed to that hot Welsh blood. What would my good Marie say? Why have you
not had the sense to make a friend of the boy? He is worth ten of you,
and has kept his temper like the gentleman he is.”
It was true. I had some queer sense of amusement in the feeling that
I really was not angry; neither was I ashamed; but an hour later I was
both angry and ashamed. Just now I felt sorry for my father, and shared
the humiliation he evidently felt.
My aunt turned to her brother, where, having let me go, he stood with
set features, looking from her to me, and from me to her. Something in
his look disturbed her.
“You should be proud of his self-command. Cannot you see that it is your
accursed repression and dry, dreary life at home that has put you two
apart?”
“I have been put to scorn before my son, Gainor Wynne. It is thy evil
ways that have brought this about. I have lost my temper and would
have struck in anger, when I should have reflected, and, after prayer,
chastised this insolence at home.”
“I heard no insolence.”
“Go away, Hugh, and thou, Gainor. Why dost thou always provoke me? I
will hear no more!”
“Come, Hugh,” she said; and then: “It seems to me that the boy has had a
good lesson in meekness, and as to turning that other cheek.”
“Don’t, Aunt Gainor!” said I, interrupting her.
“Oh, go!” exclaimed my father. “Go! go, both of you!”
“Certainly; but, John, do not mention my news or my London letter.”
“I shall not.”
“Then by-by! Come, Hugh!”