There were no more words. The moon was up as I pulled down Dock Creek
and out on my friendly river.
“Let thy boat drift,” he said. “Perhaps thou art aware, Hugh Wynne, how
grieved I was; for I know all that went before. I somehow think that
thou hast already done for thyself what these good folk seemed to think
was needed. Am I right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then say no more. James Wilson has spoken of thee often. To be loved of
such a man is much. I hear that thou hast been led to think with us, and
that, despite those wicked wild oats, thou art a young man of parts and
good feelings, thoughtful beyond thy years.”
I thanked him almost: in tears; for this kindly judgment was, past
belief, the best remedy I could have had.
“I saw thy great suffering; but in a year, in a month, this will seem
a thing of no import; only, when thou art calm and canst think, hold a
Meeting in thy own heart, and ask thy quiet judgment, thy conscience,
thy memory, if prayer be needed; and do it for thyself, Hugh.”
I said, “Thank thee,” but no more. I have ever been averse to talking of
my relations to another world, or of what I believe, or of what I am led
thereby to do in hours of self-communion. I sat wishing my father were
like this, a tender-hearted yet resolute man.
Seeing me indisposed to speak, he went on: “If we could but keep the
better part of Friends’ creed, and be set free to live at peace with
the law, to realise that to sit down quietly under oppression may be to
serve the devil, and not God! Thou knowest, as well as I, that divers
Friends have publicly avowed the ministry, and allege that whatever they
may do is a just punishment of rebellion. We are going to have a serious
settlement, and it will become us all, Hugh, young and old, to see that
we are on the right side, even if we have to draw the sword. And thou
and I shall not be alone of Friends. There are Clement and Owen Biddle,
and Christopher Marshall, and more.”