“But that is not all. These dear Quakers were the worst. They were
really sorry, and I had to put on my best manners and listen; and now
everybody knows, and you are the talk of the town. Those drab geese must
out with the whole naughtiness, despite the company which came in on
us, and here were Mr. Montresor and that ape Etherington grinning, and,
worst of all, a charming young woman just come to live here with her
aunt, and she too must have her say when the Quakers and the men were
gone.”
“And what did she say?” I did not care much. “And what is her name?”
“Oh, she said the Quakers were rather outspoken people, and it was a
pity, and she was sorry, because she knew you once, and you had taken
her part at school.”
“At school?”
“Yes. She is Darthea Peniston, and some kin of that Miss de Lancey, whom
Sir William Draper will marry if he can.”
“Darthea Peniston?” I said, and my thoughts went back to the tender
little maid who wept when I was punished, and for whom I had revenged
myself on Master Dove.
“Quite a Spanish beauty,” said my Aunt Wynne; “a pretty mite of a girl,
and not more money than will clothe her, they say; but the men mad about
her. Come and see her to-morrow if you are sober.”
“O Aunt Gainor!”
“Yes, sir. I hear Mr. Montresor has leave from Anthony Morris to invite
you to ‘The Colony in Schuylkill’ to-morrow. It is well your father has
gone to visit Mr. Yeates at Lancaster.”
“I shall behave myself, Aunt Gainer.”
“I hope so. The Fish House punch is strong.”
I went home thinking of Miss Darthea Peniston, and filled with desire to
lead a wiser life. It was full time. My aunt’s lavish generosity had, as
I have said, given me means to live freely among the officers, who were,
with some exceptions, a dissolute set. To be with them made it needful
to become deceitful and to frame excuses, so that, when I was supposed
to be at my aunt’s, or riding, I was free that past winter to go on
sleighing-parties or to frequent taverns, pleased with the notice I got
from men like Montresor and the officers of the Scotch Grays.
I have dwelt not at all on these scenes of dissipation. It is enough
to mention them. My father was wrapped up in his business, and full
of cares both worldly and spiritual; for now Friends were becoming
politically divided, and the meetings were long and sometimes agitated.
My good mother was neither deceived nor unconcerned. She talked to me
often, and in such a way as brings tears to my eyes even now to think of
the pain I gave her. Alas! it is our dearest who have the greatest power
to wound us. I wept and promised, and went back to my husks and evil
company.
I have no wish to conceal these things from my children. It is well that
our offspring when young should think us angels; but it were as well
that when they are older they should learn that we have been men of like
passions with themselves, and have known temptation, and have fought,
and won or lost, our battles with sin. It is one of the weaknesses
of nations, as well as of children, that they come to consider their
political fathers as saints. I smile when I think of the way people
nowadays think of our great President, as of a mild genius, incapable of
being moved to anger or great mirth, a man unspotted of the world. They
should have heard him at Monmouth, when Lee failed him in a time of
peril, or seen him, as I have seen him, soberly merry over his wine with
Knox. But some day you shall see him as my friend Jack and I saw him,
and you will, I trust, think no worse of him for being as human as he
was just.
The day of my more honest repentance was near, and I knew not that it
was to be both terrible and of lasting value. I sometimes reflect upon
the curious conditions with which my early manhood was surrounded.
Here was I, brought up in the strictest ways of a sect to which I do no
injustice if I describe it as ascetic. At home I saw plain living, and
no luxury, save in regard to food, which my father would have of the
best money could buy. I was taught the extreme of non-resistance, and
absolute simplicity as to dress and language. Amusements there were
none, and my father read no books except such as dealt with things
spiritual, or things commercial. At my aunt’s, and in the society I saw
at her house, there were men and women who loved to dance, gamble, and
amuse themselves. The talk was of bets, racing, and the like. To be
drunk was a thing to be expected of officers and gentlemen. To avenge an
insult with sword or pistol was the only way to deal with it. My father
was a passive Tory, my aunt a furious Whig. What wonder that I fell a
victim to temptation?