On September 1, 1773, and earlier than had been meant, my father set
sail for London with my ever dear mother. Many assembled to see the
“Fair Trader” leave her moorings. I went with my people as far as Lewes,
and on account of weather had much ado to get ashore. The voyage down
the Delaware was slow, for from want of proper lights we must needs lay
by at night, and if winds were contrary were forced to wait for the ebb.
While I was with them my father spoke much to me of business, but
neither blamed my past, nor praised my later care and assiduity in
affairs. He was sure the king would have his way, and, I thought, felt
sorry to have so readily given up the consigneeship of the teas. I
was otherwise minded, and I asked what was to be done in the event
of certain troubles such as many feared. He said that Thomas, his old
clerk, would decide, and my Aunt Gainor had a power of attorney; as
to the troubles I spoke of, he well knew that I meant such idle
disturbances of peace as James Wilson and Wetherill were doing their
best to bring about.
“Thy Cousin Arthur is better advised,” he said, “and a man of sound
judgment. Thou mightst seek worse counsel on occasion of need.”
I was surprised at this, for I should have believed, save as to the
king, they could not have had one opinion in common.
Far other were those sweeter talks I had with my mother, as we sat
on the deck in a blaze of sunlight. She burned ever a handsome brown,
without freckles, and loved to sit out, even in our great heats. She
would have me be careful at my aunt’s not to be led into idleness; for
the rest I had her honest trust; and her blue eyes, bright with precious
tears, declared her love, and hopeful belief. I must not neglect my
French--it would keep her in mind; and she went on in that tongue to say
what a joy I had been in her life, and how even my follies had let her
see how true a gentleman I was. Then, and never before, did she say a
thing which left on my mind a fear that life had not brought and kept
for her throughout all the happiness which so good and noble a creature
deserved.
“There is much of thy father in thee, Hugh. Thou art firm as he is, and
fond of thine own way. This is not bad, if thou art thoughtful to see
that thy way is a good way. But do not grow hard. And when thou art come
to love some good woman, do not make her life difficult.”
“But I love no woman, _ma mere_,” I cried, “and never shall, as I love
thee. It is the whole of my love thou hast, _chere, chere maman_; thou
hast it all.”
“Ah, then I shall know to divide with her, Hugh; and I shall be generous
too. If thou hast any little fancies that way, thou must write and tell
me. Oh, _mon fils_, thou wilt write often, and I must know all the news.
I do hear that Darthea Peniston is in thy aunt’s house a good deal, and
Madam Ferguson, the gossip, would have me believe thou carest for her,
and that Arthur Wynne is taken in the same net. I liked her. I did not
tell thee that thy Aunt Gainor left her with me for an hour while she
went into King street to bargain for a great china god. What a gay,
winning creature it is! She must needs tell me all about herself. Why do
people so unlock their hearts for me?”
I laughed, and said she had a key called love; and on this she kissed
me, and asked did I say such pretty things to other women? Darthea
was now to live with her aunt, that stiff Mistress Peniston, who was a
fierce Tory. “She will have a fine bargain of the girl. She has twenty
ways with her, real or false, and can make music of them all like a
mocking-bird. Dost thou like her, Hugh?--I mean Darthea.”