I hastened to Jack’s home, and there found Dr. Rush and Dr. Glentworth,
who was later to be the physician of Mr. Washington. My aunt, preceding
me, had taken possession. Mr. Warder was reduced to a condition of
abject obedience, and for a month and more my aunt hardly left her
girl-boy’s pillow. Indeed, it was long before I was let to see him, and
then he was but a spectre of himself, with not enough blood to blush
with. Our officers very promptly left for New York the day after our
fight, and we heard no more of them.
It would have been of little use to tell this long story but for the
consequences to me and to others. I should have done well to see my
father at once; but I could not get away, and sat till noon, asking
every now and then what I could do, and if Jack were better, despite the
fact that I was told he was doing well.
Mr. Warder was one of those people who, once a crisis seems over, must
still be doing something, and to be rid of him he was sent by my aunt to
get certain articles the doctors did or did not need. It seemed wise
to this gentleman, having completed his errands, to pay a visit of
condolence to my father, and thus it was that greater mischief was made.
About two I got away, and set forth to see my parent. Already the news
was out, and I was stopped over and over to explain what had happened.
It was the hour of dinner; for Friends dined at two, but my aunt and the
gayer set at four.
My father turned from his meal, and coldly looked me all over,--my arm
was in a sling, on which Dr. Rush had insisted,--and last into my eyes.
“Well,” he said, “thou art come at last. Fortunately, Friend Warder has
been here, and I know thy story and the mischief into which thou hast
led his poor lad. It is time we had a settlement, thou and I. Hast
thou fear neither of God nor of man? A rebellious son, and a defier of
authority! It is well thy mother is dead before she saw thee come to
this ruin of soul and body.”
“My God! father,” I cried; “how canst thou hurt me thus! I am in sorrow
for Jack, and want help. To whom should I go but to thee? O mother,
mother!” I looked around at the bare walls, and down at the sanded
floor, and could only bury my face in my hands and weep like a baby.
What with all the day had brought, and Darthea and Jack, and now this
stern old man silent, impassive, unmoved by what was shaking me like
a storm,--although I loved him still for all his hardness,--I had no
refuge but in tears.
He rose, and I sat still, thinking what I should say. “When thou art
ready to turn from thy sin and ask pardon of God and of me, who am
brought to shame on thy account, I will talk with thee.”
Upon this I set myself between him and the door. “We cannot part this
way. It is too terrible.”
“That was a matter thou hadst been wise to consider long ago, Hugh.”
“No!” I cried. I was as resolved as he. “I must be heard. How have I
offended? Have I neglected thy business? who can say so? I was insulted
in Meeting, and I went where men do not trample on a penitent boy, and
if I have gone the way of my aunt’s world, is it my fault or thine? I
have gone away from what, in thy opinion, is right as regards questions
in which the best and purest side with me. Am I a child, that I may
not use my own judgment?” It was the first time in my life that I had
plainly asserted my freedom to think and to act.
To my surprise, he stood a moment in silence, looking down, I as quiet,
regarding him with eager and attentive eyes. Then he said, seeking my
gaze, “I am to blame; I have too much considered thy chances of worldly
gain. I know not whence thou hast thy wilfulness.” As I looked in the
face of this strong, rock-like man, I wondered; for he went on, “Not
from me, Hugh, not from me--”
“Stop!” I said. “Thou hast said enough.” I feared lest again he should
reproach her of whose sweetness I had naught but a gift of the blue eyes
that must have met his with menace. I saw, as his hands shook,
tapping the floor with his cane, how great were both his anger and his
self-control.
“It were well, my son, that this ended. I hope thou wilt see thy way to
better courses. Thy cousin was right. He, too, is a man not of my world,
but he saw more clearly than I where thou wert going.”
“What!” I cried, “and thou canst think this? Thou hast believed and
trusted Arthur Wynne! What did he say of me?”
“I will not be questioned.”
“The man lied to thee,” I cried,--“why, I do not know,--and to others
also. Why did he deceive us as to Wyncote? What reason had he? As he
lied about that, so does he seem to have lied about me. By heaven! he
shall answer me some day.”
“I will hear no profanity in my house. Stand aside! Dost thou not hear
me? Am I to be disobeyed in my own house?”
I but half took in his meaning, and stood still. The next moment he
seized me by the lapels of my coat, and, spinning me round like a child,
pushed me from him. I fell into the great Penn chair he had turned
from the table when he rose. He threw open the door, and I saw him walk
quickly down the hall and out into the orchard garden.
For a week he did no more than speak to me a word when business made
it needful, and then the monotonous days went on as before in the gray,
dismal home, out of which the light of life’s gladness departed when
those dear mother-eyes were closed in death.