“That was only a jest, Mr. Wynne. My other girl has stolen it, for
remembrance of a lad that was brave and--”
“He was a young fool! My shilling, please.”
“No, no!”
At this I touched the mare with my spur. She, not seeing the joke,
pranced about, and Miss Darthea was forced to hold to my waist for a
minute.
“The mare is ill broke,” she cried. “Why does she not go along quietly?”
“She hates dishonesty,” said.
“But I have not a penny.”
“Thou shouldst never run in debt if thon art without means. It is worse
than gambling, since here thou hast had a consideration for thy money,
and I am out of pocket by a valuable thought.”
“I am very bad. I may get prayed over in Meeting, only we do not have
the custom at Christ Church.”
I was struck dumb. Of course every one knew of my disaster and what came
of it; but that a young girl should taunt me with it, and for no reason,
seemed incredible. No one ever spoke of it to me, not even Mistress
Ferguson, whose daily food was the saying of things no one else dared to
say. I rode on without a word.
At last I heard a voice back of me quite changed--tender, almost
tearful. “Will you pardon me, Mr. Wynne? I was wicked, and now I have
hurt you who was once so good to me. Your aunt says that I am six girls,
not one, and that--Will you please to forgive me?”
“Pray don’t; there is nothing to forgive. I am over-sensitive, I
suppose. My friend Mr. Wilson says it is a great thing in life to learn
how to forget wisely. I am learning the lesson; but some wounds take
long to heal, and this is true of a boy’s folly. Pray say no more.” I
put the mare to trotting, and we rode on past Cliveden and Mount Airy,
neither speaking for a while.
I wondered, as we rode, at her rashness of talk and her want of
consideration; and I reflected, with a certain surprise, at the frequent
discovery, of late, on how much older I seemed to be. It was a time
which quickly matured the thoughtful, and I was beginning to shake off,
in some degree, the life-long shackles of limitation as to conduct,
dress, and minor morals, imposed upon me by my home surroundings. In a
word, being older than my years, I began to think for myself. Under the
influence of Mr. Wetherill I had come, as without him I could not have
done, to see how much there was of the beautiful and noble in the creed
of Fox and Penn, how much, too, there was in it to cramp enterprise,
to limit the innocent joys of life, to render progress impossible, and
submission to every base man or government a duty.
I had learned, too, in my aunt’s house, the ways and manners of a larger
world, and, if I had yielded to its temptations, I had at least profited
by the bitter lesson. I was on the verge of manhood, and had begun to
feel as I had never done before the charm of woman; this as yet I hardly
knew.
As we breasted the hill, and saw beneath us the great forest-land spread
out, with its scattered farms, an exclamation of delight broke from
my companion’s lips. It was beautiful then, as it is today, with the
far-seen range of hills beyond the river, where lay the Valley Forge I
was to know so well, and Whitemarsh, all under the hazy blue of a cool
August day, with the northwest wind blowing in my face.
Within there were my aunt and some young women, and my Cousin Arthur,
with explanations to be made, after which my young woman hurried off to
make her toilet, and I to rid me of my riding-dress.
It was about seven when we assembled out of doors under the trees, where
on summer days my Aunt Gainor liked to have supper served. My Cousin
Wynne left Mrs. Ferguson and came to meet me. We strolled apart, and he
began to ask me questions about the tea cargoes expected soon, but which
came not until December. I said my father’s voyage would prevent his
acting as consignee, and this seemed to surprise him and make him
thoughtful, perhaps because he was aware of my father’s unflinching
loyalty. He spoke, too, of Mr. Wilson, appearing--and this was natural
enough--to know of my intimacy with the Whig gentleman. I was cautious
in my replies, and he learned, I think, but little. It was a pity, he
said, that my father would not visit Wyncote. It seemed to me that he
dwelt overmuch on this matter, and my aunt, who greatly fancied him,
was also of this opinion. I learned long after that he desired to feel
entirely assured as to the certainty of this visit not being made. I
said now that I wished I had my father’s chance to see our Welsh home,
and that I often felt sorry my grandfather had given it up.
“But he did,” said my cousin, “and no great thing, either. Here you are
important people. We are petty Welsh squires, in a decaying old house,
with no money, and altogether small folk. I should like to change places
with you.”
“And yet I regret it,” said I. My Aunt Gainor had filled me full of the
pride of race.
I spoke as we approached the group about my aunt, and I saw his face
take an expression which struck me. He had a way of half closing his
eyes, and letting his jaw drop a little. I saw it often afterward.
I suspect now that he was dealing intensely with some problem which
puzzled him.
He seemed to me to be entirely unconscious of this singular expression
of face, or, as at this time, to be off his guard; for the look did not
change, although I was gazing at him with attention. Suddenly I saw come
down the green alley, walled with well-trimmed box, a fresh vision of
her who had been riding with me so lately. My cousin also became aware
of the figure which passed gaily under the trees and smiled at us from
afar.
“By George! Hugh,” said Arthur, “who is the sylph? what grace! what
grace!”
For a moment I did not reply. She wore a silken brocade with little
broidered roses here and there, a bodice of the same, cut square over a
girl-like neck, white, and not yet filled up. Her long gloves were held
up to the sleeve by tightens of plaited white horsehair, which held a
red rosebud in each tie; and her hair was braided with a ribbon, and set
high in coils on her head, with but little powder. As she came to meet
us she dropped a curtsey, and kissed my aunt’s hand, as was expected of
young people.
I have tried since to think what made her so unlike other women. It was
not the singular grace which had at once struck my cousin; neither was
she beautiful. I long after hated Miss Chew for an hour because she said
Darthea Peniston had not one perfect feature. She had, notwithstanding,
clear, large brown eyes, and a smile which was so variously eloquent
that no man saw it unmoved. This was not all. Her face had some of that
charm of mystery which a few women possess--a questioning look; but,
above all, there was a strange flavour of feminine attractiveness,
more common in those who are older than she, and fuller in bud; rare,
I think, in one whose virgin curves have not yet come to maturity. What
she was to me that summer evening she was to all men--a creature of many
moods, and of great power to express them in face and voice. She was
young, she loved admiration, and could be carried off her feet at times
by the follies of the gay world.
If you should wonder how, at this distant day, I can recall her dress, I
may say that one of my aunt’s lessons was that a man should notice how
a woman dressed, and not fail at times to compliment a gown, or a pretty
fashion of hair. You may see that I had some queer schoolmasters.