Early in March of 1782 Jack and I concluded that the war was over, or
was to be but a waiting game, as indeed it proved. After some thought
over the matter we both resigned, and as it was desired to lessen the
list of officers, we were promptly released from service.
On March 22 his Excellency rode away from town under escort of Captain
Morris’s troop of light horse. I went along as far as Burlington, being
honoured when I left by the personal thanks of the general, and the kind
wish that I might discover it to be convenient to visit him at Mount
Vernon.
April was come, and we gladly turned again to the duties which awaited
us both. His Excellency had gone to watch Sir Guy Carleton penned up in
New York. Congress wrangled, our gay world ate and danced, and the tardy
war fell to such slackness that it was plain to all a peace must
soon come, although we were yet to see another winter pass before the
obstinate Dutchman on the English throne gave up a lost game.
In July my father died of a sudden afflux of blood to the head; and
although he was blooded by Dr. Rush several times, never was so far
bettered as to speak to me. Only once, as I am told is not rare, he
so revived when in the very article of death as to look about and say,
thinking my hand in his was my mother’s, that she must not grieve for
him.
Alas! he had been as one dead to me for many a year. I wore no black for
him, because I was and am of the opinion of Friends that this custom is
a foolish one. My aunt was ill pleased at my decision, and put herself
and all her house in mourning. None the less, for my part, did I regret,
not so much the natural, easy death, as the sad fact it seemed to fetch
back so plainly, that from my youth up here were two people, neither of
them unkindly or ill natured, who were all through life as completely
apart as if no tie of a common blood had pledged them to affection.
I saw--I can see now--the gray and drab of the great concourse of
Friends who stood about that open grave on Arch street. I can see, too,
under the shadow of his broad gray beaver, the simple, sincere face
of James Pemberton, my father’s lifelong friend. He spoke, as was the
custom of Friends, at the grave, there being no other ceremony, an
omission of which I confess I do not approve. Much moved, he said:
“Our friend, John Wynne, departed this life on the 23d of July of
this year [being 1782]. For many years he hath carried the cross
of afflicting sickness, and hath unceasingly borne testimony to the
doctrine and conduct upheld of Friends. He was a man of great abilities,
and, like our lamented William Penn, of an excellent gravity of
disposition, without dissimulation, extensive in charity, having neither
malice nor ungratefulness. He was apt without forwardness, yet weighty,
and not given to unseemly levity. The wise shall cherish the thought of
him, and he shall be remembered with the just.” And this was all. One by
one they took my hand, and with my Aunt Gainor I walked away. I closed
the old home a day or two later, and went with my aunt to her farm.
I had not seen Darthea for many a day. “Let her alone,” said my aunt.
I think Jack was often with her; but he knew to hold his tongue, and I
asked no questions. At last, a week after the funeral, I recognised her
hand in the address of a note to me. I read it with a throbbing heart.
“Sir: I have heard of your great loss with sorrow, for even though your
father has been this long while as one lost to you, I do think that the
absence of a face we love is so much taken from the happiness of life.
You know that your aunt hurt me as few could, but now I am not sorry for
what then befell. The thought of death brings others in its train, and
I have reflected much of late. I shall go to see Mistress Wynne to-day,
and will you come and see me when it shall appear to you convenient? I
am for a little at Stenton, with Madam Logan.”
Would I, indeed? My dear old Lucy, a little stiff in the knees, carried
me well, and seemed to share my good humour as I rode down the long road
from Chestnut Hill.
The great trees about the home James Logan built were in full leaf, and
under their shade a black groom held two horses as I rode up. Darthea
came out, and was in the saddle before she saw me.
The rich bloom of health was again on her cheek, and deepened a little
as I went toward her.
I said I was glad to see her, and was she going to my Aunt Gainor’s? If
so, and if it were agreeable to her, the groom might stay. I would ride
back with her. Then Mrs. Logan, at the door, said this would suit very
well, as she needed the man to go to town. After this we rode away under
the trees and up the Germantown road, Miss Peniston pushing her horse,
and we not able on this account to talk. At last, when I declared Lucy
too old to keep up the pace, the good beast fell to walking.
Soon we went by the graveyard where the brave Englishman, General Agnew,
lay; and here Darthea was of a mind to be told again of that day of
glory and defeat. At the market-house, where School-house Lane comes out
into the main street of Germantown, she must hear of the wild strife in
the fog and smoke, and at last of how I was hurt; and so we rode on. She
had gotten again her gay spirits, and was full of mirth, anon serious,
or for a moment sad. Opposite Cliveden I had to talk of the fight, and
say where were Jack and Sullivan and Wayne, although Jack more concerned
her. As we rode up the slope of Mount Airy I broke a long silence.
“Darthea,” said I, “Is it yes, or always no?”
“Will you never be contented?” she returned, “Isn’t it mean to say these
things now? I can’t get away. I have half a mind to marry Jack, to be
rid of you both.”
“Is it _yes_ or _no_, Darthea?”
“Yes,” she said, looking me in the face. I am a strong man,--I was so
then,--but a great rush of blood seemed to go to my head, and then I
went pale, as she told me later, and I clutched at Lucy’s mane. I felt
as if I might fall, so much was I moved by this great news of joy.
“Are you ill?” she cried.
“No, no,” I said; “it is love! Thy dear love I cannot bear. Thank God,
Darthea!”
“And do you love me so much, Hugh? I--I did not know.” She was like a
sweet, timid child.